


The First Of Their Names

by Edralis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1245367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edralis/pseuds/Edralis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After winning the war and saving the kingdom, Stannis Baratheon is on his way to King’s Landing to finally sit the Iron throne and bring justice to the people of Westeros. The remaining nobles swarm to him to swear fealty and declare their unwavering loyalty, including Sansa Stark, who comes out of hiding hoping for a chance to clear her name and reclaim her family’s heritage in the North.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ante portas

**Author's Note:**

> Frustrated by the long weeks of waiting for a new fic or an update featuring this lovely crack pairing, I have decided to try and deliver my own take on the theme – on how and under what circumstances could Sansa and Stannis get together and how would their interactions play out (and how awesome and totally not awkward would their first sex be). I have several chapters planned out, but the going will be slow, and the burn even more so.  
> The story takes place after war, starting in 303 AL. Sansa is close to 17 at this point and Stannis is 38. I entirely leave out many characters from the saga and ignore whole storylines as it suits my interests, so don’t try and think too hard on what exactly happened on the Wall, where the hell is Dany and the dragons or who was Azor Ahai in the end. This is a fluffy, smutty and extremely indulgent excercise in wishful thinking, centering on the buil-up of the relationship between my two favourite characters, with just enough background and plot to justify them interacting at all and to give them topics to discuss and clash on and in others ways to provide for a nice kindling.  
> Rated M for unapologetic smut in later chapters – if I will ever get that far in this story, that is. I will be adding more characters to the tags as they‘ll appear in the upcoming chapters. Oh, and also – I am not a native English speaker, and this work is unbetaed, so – apologies in advance for the clumsy grammar and phrasing!

The sun was a fuzzy white spot and the sky a screen of mist above their heads. They urged their horses through the plains and across the fords and woods, galloping until the poor beasts stumbled.

Sansa was so sore she could no longer feel her legs. Then again, she didn’t think Podrick and Edric fared much better at this point. And their horses. Their poor, poor horses, lathered, chafed raw and still going, even after all the weeks of ceaseless strain and the madness of the last few days.

The little group was being followed – for three days now. She knew because Nymeria showed her one night.

Sansa thought she wouldn’t ever visit her dreams again to haunt her after the assistance she got from her and her companions – the savage group of man-eating wolves, that is – in the Vale. Without their help, she surely wouldn’t have gotten through. She would have fallen into the hands of the men of the mountain clans, or – even worse – found by Littlefinger’s mercenaries and brought back to him. Or maybe a bear would have torn her asunder. That was exactly what she thought would happen to her – being eaten alive, that is – when Nymeria showed up.

Sansa thought that was what the wolves would have actually done, be it not for her sister’s – her dear sister’s – lost direwolf. She recognized her – they recognized each other, and althought Sansa was still afraid, she followed Nymeria with her pack and they lead her out of the woods, dismembering and disemboweling anyone who crossed their path.

She didn’t seee any of it, being right in the centre of the deadly wave of the fearsome beasts. But she could hear, and even _taste_ it, sometimes, in the night, and it made her sick, every time. But however she tried, she could not excise the direwolf’s presence from her dreams. So she was glad when she finally emerged from the woods south of the Vale and the wolves abandoned her. The dreams became fainter with every passing day, and at last she found herself free from them.

That was when she stumbled upon Edric. Edric Dayne, the rightfull Lord of Starfall. Oh, he told her much and more when she finally relented and let him bring her to that little hiding place in the caves, and she couldn’t find herself to believe half of it.

There were others there with him, a whole score of them, actually. A ragged group of fearsome, scarred outlaws and young, but no less scarred girls with cudgels in their hands, and some children and old women too. And even Podrick Payne, Tyrion’s timid squire, although he wasn’t so timid any longer. They were all hungry and sad, so she fit just right in.

It was Podrick, of course, who recognized her and told Edric. And when they asked her what she would do, she didn’t hesitate one moment to give them their answer.

That was over a year ago. A year of hiding, of rough rides through the woods, miles and miles, and even more on foot, with barely something to eat, with nothing of her own but her clothes and her determination, not even her name.

She went after Dora when there was a need to go by any name at all. Podrick still called her his lady, and so did Edric, when they were alone, but the others called her Dora too – they didn’t know, and that was for the best, she supposed. To retaliate, she sometimes called Edric _Lord_ , and Podrick _Ser_ , just because she knew it would bring that smile to his face. “I am no ser,” he would say, and oh, she heard that before and it made the whole thing even sweeter, “Only Podrick, my lady.”

She learned to tend to her own horse (even grew close to a few), start a fire, go by on near nothing and, for to be able to bear it easier, to joke about it, sharing her misery with her no less miserable companions.

She shared her sleeping places with uncouth, hairy, stinky men and in time she found herself lulled to sleep by their loud snores. She helped those same men how she could, mostly by tending their clothes and cleaning their wounds, for the protection they provided and for the food they brought in.

Some of them would grow bold and try to drag her into a corner or pushed their hands under her skirts, but after those were dealt with most of the rest contented themselves with giving her hard time with their bawdy comments and laughing at her attempts to talk back and chastise them in the process.

For some reason, they always find her speech hilarious and couldn’t keep a straight face when she tried talking to them, at least at first. But she learned to regulate her speech patterns, too, to use phrases appropriate for the role she was supposed to play at the moment. She even learned a repertory of jokes so crude she would surely faint in horror if she heard them just a few years ago, and quite a few imaginative curses, but those she would never use, not even as Dora.

She shivered through the nights and starved through the days, but she was free. And oh, how _sweet_ that was.

She was almost seventeen now and she’s become so hardened she didn’t think she could find any softness in herself ever again. But the time had come for her to reclaim her name, and to become a lady again. It was what her mother wanted her to do. The last – the _only_ – thing her mother told her before she let the Stoneheart take over the shell of her body again and left to exact that revenge of hers. _You are a Stark, Sansa, the last one, and you need to reclaim what belongs to you and bring justice to the memory of your Father, your Brother, and me, too._ And it was also what Sansa herself desired, she supposed. She just… she didn’t know if she remembered _how_ to be a lady, anymore. And she couldn’t help but doubt she could ever be truly worthy to be called the daughter of her brave parents, the sister of her dear siblings, the heir of her ancient name.

Their pursuers were gaining on them with each hour and they couldn’t stop and rest, not now. They were close, so close Sansa could see the walls of the castle faint in the distance, but she knew they were still leagues away.

She thought they were Littlefinger’s old men, but she couldn’t be sure. Maybe they caught a glimpse of her hair when she, Edric and Podrick lingered in some small town or another, and remembered she still had a prize on her head, hoping that _someone_ would pay. They wouldn’t bring her back to Littlefinger, she supposed, as she hoped there was no Littlefinger to bring her back to anymore, not after the Lady Stoneheart has gotten to him. If she did. But maybe they didn’t know or maybe they had a mind to sell her to someone else, or maybe they would just kill Edric and Podrick and have their way with her and leave her with her throat slit by the road. She didn’t care to find out what their intentions were. What she _knew_ was that she needed to find her way to Harrenhal, to this man who happened to be the last man alive calling himself the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. She hoped she would find him willing to listen.

There was another thing she hoped for, but she couldn’t bring herself to aknowledge it as a real possibility in her heart. It would be too heavy a blow for her to take in, even after everything that happened these past years, to allow herself to hold onto this hope, just to have it crushed to pieces after it would become clear it was just a rumour and nothing else. _Rickon. Rickon, my dear baby brother._

She prayed, silent prayers when she couldn’t sleep in the night, but she never dared to truly hope. But she _did_ hope her mother would hear. _Let her hear it. Even if it isn’t true. Maybe she would be able to finally move on._ But then Sansa remembered that her mother was no more, that the Lady Stoneheart didn’t care for the living anymore, not even her own children. That was why it was so easy, too easy, to leave her again once she found her.

Edric rode by her left and Podrick by her right and ever so often one or the other would remind her: “We are almost there, my lady. Just a bit further. We have to go on, Sansa.”

Being so close to their destination, they rode without a night’s sleep. They didn’t have any food left to share, anyway, and hoped to reach Harrenhal by dawn. But their going was slow and their poor horses were so lathered and breathing so heavily, wheezing, it was clear they wouldn’t be able to carry them much farther, and they finally settled for a few hours of rest an hour or two after sunrise.

Despite her exhaustion Sansa didn’t fall sleep, and neither did Podrick, although he tried. Edric spent the early morning walking around their camp, starting at every rustle in the bushes. At least their horses dozed off for a while.

When they saddled up to ride out again, the morning was bitingly cold and damp. _As pleasant as an embrace from a corpse, rotting in a river,_ Sansa thought and startled, horrified.

“My lady, we need to go,” Podrick grasped her shoulder and helped her up, “We’ll reach Harrenhal by midday, surely. Just a few more hours.” Sansa mounted her mare. “Let’s go, then.” She urged her forward, leading the way. Somehow she was full of grim determination again, after days of hesitant uncertainty.

An hour later, the storm started. It was a more of a drizzle at first, but soon they found themselves trudging through mud, the rain falling so heavily it almost seem to push them to the ground. It felt as if the nature itself was posing them obstacles, hoping to throw them off their path, pushing them away. But it only made Sansa spur her mare harder.

She reached the walls first, with her two young companions lagging behind her, and while she waited on them to catch up, she dismounted and embraced the neck of her mare, her eyes tearing.

“We are here, my lady,” Podrick said, and Edric only managed to nod and smile and let out a heavy sigh.

They couldn’t have tell from the overcast sky, but it was not yet noon.


	2. The places to claim back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear patient readers! I am sorry for my English again. I am sure there is a lot to be desired as concerns both grammar and stylistics, but as I stand now, I am just happy I've been able to continue writing this story and did not let myself get discouraged by the fact that it is not as well written as I would like it to be. I have a tendency to get stuck in the details, and as I am almost never satisfied with my work, most of the time I end up too disappointed with myself to continue (let alone to finish it). So this time I decided to try and just let it flow out and not to get too stressed out about it. Some things didn't work out as well as I imagined when I started and sometimes I feel like I've lost the thread entirely, but alas, in the end and after many a compromise with myself I did manage to post a new chapter! :) Please, keep this in mind as you read, and be kind. Thanks!

The Guard

This whole part of the castle felt so unaccommodating that sometimes it seemed downright hostile. But then again, this whole _castle_ oozed with hostility, an irritated sleeping giant that could only tolerate them prancing around on his belly for so long and whose patience was wearing thin.

In Harrenhal, the stone walls wailed and sometimes crumbled as if they were just wet sand patted into place, and the fires occassionally spat out a chunk of yellow sulfur. Arthyl wasn’t sure if it was always like this, or if it was just desperately trying to shake off its current kingly occupant with his retinue, which, he supposed, included himself.

But there was something about the chambers the king has chosen for his temporary residence that was particularly ghastly, although Arthyl wasn’t able to pin down what exactly it was. He mentioned it to a friend one evening over a shared tankard, and the man guffawed so hard the ale burst from his mouth. „It is not so much the dwellings, but the dweller,“ he said. He meant the king, of course. His Grace was gloomy and brusque and tense on a best day, and wherever he went, the tenseness went with him and made everyone in the vicinity uncomfortable. Arthyl was one of the handful of guards chosen to guard the tower, so he happened to spend a lot of time around him.

Fortunately, his shifts alternated between interior and exterior duty, so he either walked around and back the halls and stairs or stood by the gate, checking in the visitors. Usually, there were not many of them, and most of those were the King’s council members or other Lords come for a word with the king, so it was a peaceful and unchallenging duty. It could have been even pleasant, were it not right in the heart of the damnable castle.

It was raining heavily that morning, and by noon the ground was a squishing bog of mud and dung, so when the three travelers neared the gate, he heard them before he saw them.

***

The guard braced himself and entered the buzzing makeshift council chamber.

The king was standing, leaning against the table with the palms of his hands, a heavy ledger placed before him. At his side, the Grand Maester was pointing at passages in the text as he spoke, gesturing animatedly and the king followed the robed man’s finger with squinted eyes.

„Your grace.“ The guard started, but his voice almost stuck in his throat and came out as a throaty mumble. He clenched his fists, cleared his throat and tried again. „ _Your Grace_.“

The din in the room quieted immediately as the king looked up from the book and made a stalling gesture with his hand. His call to the guard to speak his business was an irritated bark.

„There is a lady in the antechamber requesting immediate private audience with Your Grace and the Council. She claims to be the Lady Sansa Stark. There is a boy with her, calling himself Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall, come to pay homage to His Grace.“ the guard spat out.

The answer came first in a whisper from the Maester of Coin, standing at the table nearest the door „As you can clearly see, Ser, His Grace and the Council are in the middle of a meeting. Tell the lady and this boy they may await His Grace’s pleasure in the audience chamber.“

„The lady’s been told. But I’m afraid she is rather... persistent. She requires your attention immediately.“

This time, it was Stannis who spoke. „Lady Stark, is it? Lady Lannister, then. _Persistent_? Does she hold a knife to your throat? Did she make you eat some pigeon pie?“ The king snorted his annoyance. „Escort these lords and ladies out and give them some proper accommodation, if there is any around to be found, or leave them waiting in the audience chamber, I don’t care. And tell the lady the likes of her should not presume to require anything from the Council. She should count herself lucky I do not have her be arrested on the spot, if she truly is who she claims to be. We will hear both of them out after this meeting is concluded.“

***

The lady in the rain-sodded cloak stood in the same spot where the guard had left her. The two thin boys by her sides – one blond and proud, the other gangling and with a peach fuzz and both of them unkempt and dripping water – didn’t seem to have moved at all either. Ruggedly armoured and armed, they didn’t appear to pose much threat. Still, the two guards that flanked the travelers eyed them suspiciously, their hands on the pommels of their swords.

He had time enough to look at the lady properly as he walked towards her and he could see she was beautiful, even with her garb worn out and the dark circles under her eyes. He didn’t realize at first how young she was, not yet twenty for sure. He wondered whether she truly was this Sansa Stark, the murderess and shapeshifter.

As for the other two, the self-proclaimed Lord of Starfall and the other boy (who once sneezed so loudly Arthyl was sure they could hear him up in the council chamber), he could see by the way they looked at her, the way they stood, that they were her retinue, not just fellow travelers.

The lady turned to face him and for a split moment her eyes caught the light of the torches and he could see that they were blue. Her face was wan, her sharp features accentuated by the fickle flickering light of the torches. She looked almost a wraith, but the way she held herself up, the graceful gestures of her hands and her soft, but steady voice when he spoke with her before seeing her in could have left no doubt of her noble upbringing.

„His Grace is occupied at the moment and cannot receive either of you, but he shall see you after the meeting is over. You are to be given suitable accommodation. Or you can wait in the audience chamber.“

„His Grace is most gracious and we are grateful for his hospitality. But if he is not disposed to receive us now, we would prefer to wait here, so that I would be able to speak with His Grace and the council as soon as their meeting is over.“

Arthyl supposed there wasn’t any harm in her waiting there, so he just nodded and went to return to his spot by the gates, leaving the group in the hands of the interior guards.

Sansa

They were all cold and wet and tired, standing in a drafty hall in one of the Harrenhal’s gigantic towers, waiting for the king’s pleasure.

She had never seen Stannis Baratheon before, but she did see a lot of his elder brother the king Robert, big and boisterous, and recognized the younger one, the dashing Renly, when she saw him once, back in King’s Landing. They said this king was very unlike his brothers, that he was restrained where Robert was decadent and stern where Renly was exuberant. Well and good, she supposed. After Lannisters, after all the others – after Littlefinger –Stannis Baratheon did not seem to be the kind of man she wouldn’t be ready to face. _If the worst they can say of him is that he is humourless and hard, he would be the most righteous man sitting the Iron Throne for decades._

After what must have been almost an hour, several men entered the hall from the council chamber. They were of various age and attire, but none of them looked a Baratheon. She curtseyed and addressed them as lords, but they only eyed her with creases at their eyes as they passed by her, several of them muttering a hasty „my lady“.

A quarter of an hour later, the door to the council chamber opened again and there he was, by the Grace of Gods – or was it God, now? Sansa wasn’t sure – the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

Stannis Baratheon wore a plain black doublet and black jerkin trimmed with sable and the crown on his head was of red gold. He was tall and broad in the shoulders, but his face was gaunt and his complexion sallow.

There was another man with him, clad in a simple gray gown. Judging from the gold chain around the neck of the otherwise unassuming man with a plain face, it had to be Stannis‘ Hand, the smuggler-turned-lord Davos Seaworth. They were engaged in a conversation as they walked out, followed by two guards.

She nodded to Edric and Podrick and together, they came forward.

The Hand stopped mid-sentence. The king’s brow furrowed, but he waved a hand. Podrick bent into a deep bow beside her and Edric followed him, with a loud salutation. „Your Grace. My Lord.“

Sansa curtseyed but did not cast down her eyes. „Your Grace. Lord Hand.“

„Sansa Stark, I am told.“ The King’s eyes shifted to her face as he addressed her, and she just registered a flicker of surprise – a recognition, perhaps? – in his eyes before he looked away. „Lord Edric Dayne, of Starfall. Come to swear fealty to me. I am told you squired for Lord Beric Dondarrion when he was sent off by Ned Stark. To become an outlaw, seemingly.“

„To become an outlaw under the law of the false king Joffrey, your grace.“ Edric jumped to answer. „Lord Beric was initially sent out by the late Hand, Lord Eddard Stark, to arrest Gregor Clegane. After king Robert’s death we continued to ambush Lannister forces in the Riverlands, together with Thoros of Myr and many other good men.”

At that, Sansa spoke up: “Your Grace, Lord Dayne has been my companion at travels for the last year. Along with Podrick Payne, here. I can vouch for many a brave deed they did in help to the smallfolk of the Riverlands during the war. We rode out as soon as we learnt Your Grace was to be stationed at Harrenhal on his way to King’s Landing.”

King’s Hand regarded them inquisitively, but the king’s jaw was clenched and his gaze rather incredulous.

“Come, all three of you. Davos, you too.” He gestured back to council chamber and they followed him inside.

“Lord Dayne, you can kneel now and the rest you can sort out with my Hand and the Grand Maester. Officially, you shall have your chance to pledge your fealty to me at King’s Landing at the ceremony, together with the rest of the noble lords come for that purpose to the capital.”

After that matter was settled, the king sat on a chair behind a smaller table in one of the corners, his Hand taking his seat by his right, and Sansa, Edric and Podrick opposite them. The king turned his attention to Sansa.

“My lady. Did you come to perhaps share the whereabouts of your husband?“

Sansa leaned back in her chair, and felt a piece of lathed ornamentation pressing rather painfully at her nape. „Your Grace means Tyrion Lannister?“

„Did you manage to wed anyone else during the war?“

Sansa sighed. „Your Grace. I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him since the night of Joffrey’s death. And to clear this out right away, I had no part in Joffrey‘s murder. As for Tyrion, I cannot say.“ she breathed out.

She intended to bring this next thing up as a last point in their conversation, but she couldn’t bring herself to hold off the desperate hope creeping upon her heart, threatening to swallow it whole, any longer.

“Your Grace. As we were traveling through Riverlands, we came upon… rumours. They say my youngest brother wasn’t murdered in Winterfell. They say… they say my brother Rickon lives and that you have found him. Is it… is he…?”

“Yes, I have him here. You have Lord Davos here to thank for finding him and bringing him here, but I am not sure you will be glad to claim this brother of yours.The Lord Stark kicks and bites and won’t talk, but he has that beast with him, so I suppose it is indeed him. They couldn’t be separated, so we had to close him away into the Godswood with it, otherwise it would butcher all our horses. But he seems well enough. Mayhaps he will recognize you and we will be finally able to get some useful information from him.”

Sansa sat transfixed and her eyes started to glaze over, so she blinked the water forcefully away. She focused on keeping her voice level. “Can I see him?”

“I could take you to him, my lady,” it was Davos who spoke, to which the King added: “After we talk,” Then he inclined his head at Edric. “Lord Dayne, you can go, if you wish.”

Sansa nodded her encouragement at him and caught Podrick by his arm, “You go too. Go rest, go warm yourself. I will join you soon,” she whispered to him, and Podrick went, reluctantly.

After they left, she found a steaming cup of mulled wine on the table before her, and a servant was pouring for Lord Davos. The king had before him a clear glass of what seemed to be either spirits or pure water.

“My lady, I can assure you your brother is well, strong and healthy, if in need of a little guidance.” the Hand spoke to her kindly, and Sansa thanked him, but she couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger at the notion of their keeping her baby brother – the Lord of Winterfell – under a lock. _That won’t do at all._

“Your Grace. There are several matters in need of addressing. I have already asserted I am innocent of murder of Joffrey Lannister. I have no knowledge as to what might have transpired at his wedding that led to him choking to death. However, there _are_ information I could share with you that I believe Your Grace would be interested to hear, concerning the deaths of Lysa Tully, her son the late Lord of the Vale Robert Arryn, Robert’s heir Harrold Hardyng, and Jon Arryn.”

She started at Joffrey’s wedding and from there she recounted the various events she witnessed and the secrets she learned. She skipped the parts that His Grace would not care to hear, and the parts she did not care to share.

With each sentence Sansa spoke the king seemed to harden, his hands clenching into fists.

Sansa told them what her aunt confessed in the High Hall of the Eyrie. She told them whose hands had pushed her out into the void beyond the Moon Door. She did not tell them about that white morning in the courtyard and the castle she had built of snow, nor of the way Littlefinger’s lips tasted of mint and disturbing assuredness.

She told them how Petyr arranged her match to Harrold Hardyng, and how, before it could come into fruition, he made sure her betrothed would find himself mortally wounded. She did not told them as she stood crying helplessly by Harry’s deathbed as he rattled his last breath.

She told them how Petyr didn’t waste any time getting support for his own claim as heir to Robert Arryn, his stepson, whittled out from thin air as it was. The Lord Arryn was so weak at the time they expected him to die any day, and Sansa was sure he would just as soon as Baelish had his alliances settled. She did not tell them of her own guilt, her own part in the murder, the way she disregarded the danger of the deliberate slow poisoning of her cousin for too long, even as she watched him growing weaker. _He wouldn’t stop shaking, what else was there to be done when he was required to play the lord?_

She told them also of Petyr’s intention to cement his power by taking her as his wife and rallying the Vale. She did not tell them about how Littlefinger handled her, how he kissed her, how he touched her, and how, sometimes, he called her _Cat_.

They did not break her off even once and when she finished she breathed out heavily and reached for her cup of wine, a lump in her throat and hands trembling.

“Well,” Stannis started, resting his elbows on the table and joining his hands, “It may well be that what you say is true, but it is of little consequence now. Several weeks ago, there was a raven from the Vale proclaiming Baelish dead. It would seem a band of outlaws got hold of him while he was riding out and put his head on a spike.”

Sansa supposed that information should have filled her with some satisfaction, but instead she suddenly felt very tired, and thought of Lady Stoneheart and what could have possibly become of her now.

Stannis continued: “With both him and Lysa Tully dead – and also that singer of yours that you mentioned – there is no point in holding a trial. Still, if you would be willing to testify before the Council, it would give the matter some sort of closure.”

“I am.”

“Good.”

“Your Grace,” Sansa continued immediately. “There are two other things I need to settle.”

“Speak, then,” he urged her through his teeth, his fingers tapping the wood of the table restlessly.

“First, I ask Your Grace to officially decree my marriage to Tyrion Lannister void, as it indeed is and ever was. And second – I ask to act as regent in my brother’s name, and to oversee his education at Winterfell. He should grow up north. I assure you I shall make sure he knows well to whom he owes his allegiance and receives proper education.”

Stannis stopped his tapping and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “As a refugee just came out of hiding, you are certainly bold to ask for this much, lady Stark. But if you agree to bend the knee I won’t deny you your right to assume regency of the Stark lands. Although, I left a provisional council of stewards consisting of several Northern nobles in Winterfell, and I have my doubts as to how warmly they would receive you. You are officially known to be the wife of Tyrion Lannister, notwithstanding your opinion on the marriage’s validity. Maybe if you would wed one of the lords as a widow… Regardless, the Lord Stark is to be brought to King’s Landing and fostered there at court for a few years. When he is ready, he will be sent back north to assume his duties as the lord of Winterfell. You are welcome to stay with him in King’s Landing or go north right away if that is what you would prefer – after attending the ceremony in King’s Landing and officially swearing your fealty, of course.”

The king didn’t look at her even once as he spoke, but now his eyes flickered for a moment to her face.

“Now, as for your marriage. You have wed Tyrion Lannister before the eyes of men and gods. You said your vows and received your cloak. There is nothing that could be done about that. Unless your husband is dead and you a widow, I don’t see a reason how he would not be in his right to call you his wife. If it is any consolation to you, should he ever show up in Westeros again, you would find yourself a widow soon enough. Until then, unless there is a particular circumstance that could perhaps shed more ambiguity onto the matter, I don’t really see how I could even consider the notion of invalidating the marriage, regardless of how much of a nuisance it is.”

A brief shock wave of panic mixed with anger and a sense of grievance jolted through her and the girl inside her wanted to shout and cry, but Sansa didn’t allow herself to be pushed off her track.

„Your Grace. I insist that the marriage is invalid. For a start, I was forced. I gave my consent under threat, and that is no consent at all, according to the rules of both men and Gods. I was thirteen. The Lannisters never spoke of their plan, I was simply dragged from my bed on the day of my wedding. Apart from that, as I expect perhaps that is not a good enough reason for some, the marriage was never consummated. It is legally not concluded and therefore there are no legal obstacles for it to be annulled. Besides, the marriage was unlawful from the start. Both me and Tyrion Lannister were considered our Lords Fathers‘ heirs at the time, so our marriages were a matter of state, but our rightful sovereign – that is, Your Grace,“ Sansa inclined her head and looked the king in the eye,“ – never gave us your leave to wed. The Lannisters wanted to secure Winterfell for themselves, so they had Joffrey corroborate their scheme and confirm the marriage. He removed my father’s cloak from my shoulders, but he did not have the right to do so in the first place. These three things put together, or so I hope to believe, constitute enough reason for Your Grace to reconsider your position on my marital state, and to issue an official clarification, so there would be no doubt in anyone’s eyes that bond is cut, or even better that it never existed in the first place.“

Davos spoke up: „Your Grace, no marriage contracted under circumstances like these should be considered valid. Besides, Tyrion Lannister is years missing, in all likelihood dead, and I am sure the lords would not balk at the notion of the Lady Stark being free to wed.“

Sansa supposed it was not the right time to mention she had no desire to marry any time soon. _I just want to embrace my brother again and go home to Winterfell, and lay my ghosts to rest._

The king didn’t answer for a long moment, considering his options in silence, while Sansa vented her apprehension by squeezing her hands together in her lap.

„Very well. I shall discuss the matter with the Grand Maester, see if there is perhaps any precedent to aid your case. After the dispensation for the annulment is issued and you decide to go north, you need to wed, of course, if you would assume the regency. One of the northern lords would do. Lord Umber’s eldest son, or Roger Ryswell. Lord Manderly has been widowed recently. I’m sure there will be many more come begging for your hand.“

 _Come they will,_ Sansa thought, exultant, _and go they shall_.


	3. The Godswood

** Shireen **

„Look, we’re at the gate again,“ Walda sighed, „Let’s go inside and do something else, this is getting quite tedious, princess.“

„It’s not! We can make it a race this time, see who has the fastest mare. Devan, will you race with me?“

„Princess, I must agree with the lady Walda. We should do something else.“

„I will race with you, Your Grace,“ Shirei exclaimed and spurred her dapple mare to gallop ahead.

„Shirei, no, come back,“ Shireen called, „Alright then, but we go see the Lord Stark first. Maybe he will join us.“

Walda rolled her eyes. „Is that what this is about? We are riding miles in circles around the Godswood covered in mud so you could get a peek at that wodewose?“

„It certainly is not,“ Shireen frowned, „I can’t see him through the walls, so what would be the point of that? I would have asked him to come riding with us in the morning, but Maester Lyonell went to him first. By now they’re surely done, though. Besides, the scenery around here is quite beautiful, don’t you think?”

„The splendid masonry and the overgrown paths, you mean? The gray lichen and deserted birds‘ nests in the crevices? What a sight, those are.“

„You are so insolent sometimes, Walda.“ Shireen tittered and dismounted, boring her feet into the mud with a loud _squish_.

Jeyne followed her first, carefully and daintily, hitching up her brown skirt. Then Lyanna, landing a bit too forcefully and spraying mud in Walda’s direction. The young she-bear – as she liked to style herself – squatted and took a handful of the dark gray sludge and inspected it thoughtfully. „Princess, this mud is exquisite. Just the sort we roll around in and paint ourselves with back at the Bear Island. We should do the same here, Lord Stark will be overjoyed to join us, you’ll see.“

„Very nice, Mormont.“ Walda dismounted and took off her riding gloves, followed by Devan, who muttered some pleasantries to her and then proceeded to take both their horses away to tether them. Lyanna gave a loud snort of laughter.

The last to dismount was Shirei – her mare scurried around as Walda’s dog nipped at her heels.

„Dolly, stop it.“ Walda cried after it, and the fawn bitch ran to her side. „Get off that horse, Shirei, or Shaggy will eat you along with it.“

„He wouldn’t,“ Shirei protested, her brows furrowed.

„He won’t,“ said Jeyne, petting her horse’s nose.

„He won’t, Shirei.“ Shireen assured her.

„This mud is something else, isn’t it?“ Lyanna offered, obviously not disposed to let go of her teasing.

„I don’t mind the mud,“ said Shirei.

Walda smirked. „You wouldn’t.“

It was Shireen’s time to roll her eyes. „Oh, just be silent, both of you. You are so mean today.“

When their horses were accounted for, they squish-squashed their way to the gate, the Princess and her retinue. Shirei, the youngest of them, ran ahead, freckled and long-faced and always so cheerful; Shireen went holding arms with solemn-eyed Jeyne, both their faces disfigured. Lyanna Mormont followed, with her braids swinging back and forth and a furry bear appliquéd on her cloak, then Walda with her customary smirk and with Devan and Dolly at her heels.

When Rickon came to them five moons past, he had been a fright to behold. He clung to a pony-sized savage monster which ate people for breakfast for all they knew and the only person he tolerated near was Davos, and even the brave man did not seem too comfortable around him.

Some suggested they should put the direwolf down, or else the Lord Stark wouldn’t be much use to anyone, but her father refused. He explained to her the direwolf was an important manifestation of the Stark heritage – a clear sign reminding the northmen that the little boy their king found for them is indeed the one rightful lord they sought after – and that therefore it should be kept alive at all costs. Shireen didn’t say so to him, but she was glad of it, although she wasn’t sure why.

The boy looked so fierce; like one of those hard wildling children she saw at the Wall. Small for his age – he was supposed to be around eight, she was told – but strong. Sinewy, with dark chestnut hair that was dirty and tangled and reached his shoulder blades. His eyes were wild and hostile, greyish blue.

But truly, Rickon Stark was vulnerable and lost and afraid and broken, just as Jeyne Poole had been – even though and unlike Jeyne he hid it behind his mask of fierceness. From the first day on, she took it for her responsibility to make sure the boy was well cared for and sought after approach that would allow her to get through to him, just as she had done with Jeyne before.

First they tried separating him from the direwolf and working with him alone, but he was even less cooperative when forced to abandon his pet. The matter wasn’t made any easier by the fact that he had prefered to speak in the Old tongue most of the time, although he understood and could speak the common, too. He wouldn’t do anything he was asked to do and didn’t answer most of the questions.

Still, little by little, Shireen had found her way with him. They spent quite a lot of time together, whether on the road or in camp, alone or joined by a Maester or Jeyne or one of the other girls, or Devan. Shireen read to him aloud and sometimes they talked, and sometimes he even came to sit with her. To approach him better, she even learned some phrases in the Old tongue – she found a treatise on the language in an old tome in the Maester’s library at the Twins, back when they were stationed there for a few days.

After a while, she got him to leave his wolf behind – alone in the cage the beast and Rickon shared while on the move – and to venture out to explore the camp with her, to meet new people, dine with her or the like. He still preferred the company of his wolf, but he was clever and witty and learned fast (although he ignored his lessons whenever it suited him). It seemed to Shireen they were on a good path to, perhaps and in time, make a proper lord out of him.

For a week or so that they were to be stationed at Harrenhal she ordered a tent to be sprung up at the Goswood, with interior made of the large cage, conveniently with bars of steel so that the Maesters could lock themselves in and continue attempting to catch up on the Lord Stark’s education without fear of being mangled by his pet. There was no point in chaining the direwolf – choking on a collar it only grew more restless and ferocious and so did his master, but to leave him roaming free was out of the question. Instead, Shireen suggested to let them loose in the spacious but enclosed and well-guarded expanse of the Harrenhal’s Godswood. And it seemed to work; Rickon was less tense and far more approachable this way, and even his direwolf seemed to cool down a bit.

When she visited him, Rickon usually sat listening to her outside the tent, behind the bars, with his arms curled around his pet beast. It was black and enormous and had piercing green eyes, and the boy called it Shaggy. _What an unfitting name for a direwolf that was!_

Shireen once spend a memorable evening with Jeyne and Walda making up the most inappropriate names for pet direwolves, and she was a bit ashamed of it, but it was such good fun, and they never told Rickon. Walda always came out with the best ones, she was like that. _Voleslayer_. _Cottontail. Ladybug_. Although, the girl had a large and dangerous canine herself, a blonde mastiff, and she called it Dolly, so perhaps she wasn’t the one to speak about appropriate names. Dolly and Shaggy went along; the bitch was neither fearful nor aggressive towards him, and the direwolf seemed to like her.

Now, through the gate to the Godswood they entered right into the tented cage. There were carpets and furs and chests and books and scrolls and blank parchment, too, and a table with jars of ale and a basket of sweetmeats. Lord Stark was fed three times a day; most of the time meals were brought to him, but Shireen had been trying to get him to sup with the others in the hall more often. Alone or in company, Rickon wolfed down his portion as if he was starving, not caring the least bit for ettiquette. His direwolf was fed everyday, too, most often offal and sometimes mutton or horse, whatever meat could be spared. Sometimes he shared it with his master and they feasted together. The boy looked truly a wild thing then, tearing flesh from bones in a bout of ravenous abandon. _He will soon find out there is no need for such._ She hoped, at least.

„He‘s here!“ gloated Shirei. He was, sitting on a chair with his feet drawn up and his face hid behind a great map of Westeros. He put the map down as they entered and eyed them suspiciously.

„Lord Stark. Do you mind if we joined you for a while?“ started Shireen. He hopped down from the chair and patted Dolly and then shook his head.

„The old man just left. That one with yellow beard. I made him angry,“ he proclaimed, somewhat proudly.

„Maester Lyonell. Did you bite him again?“ Shireen asked disapprovingly.

Rickon shrugged. „I might have.“

Walda laughed aloud and went to sit on the furs opposite the table.

„You shouldn’t bite people, you know.“ Shirei said, a little taken aback.

„He knows.“ Shireen went to pick up Rickon’s map. „Were you reading maps today?“

„Look it’s Shaggy! Shaggy come here!“ Shirei exclaimed in a squeaky voice and went to pet the black direwolf through the bars. Dolly sniffed and wagged her tail and made whimpering noises, and the wolf nuzzled her back.

Shireen couldn’t help but smile, her interrogation of the Lord Stark forgotten for now. The young Frey girl continued her chirping absentmindedly. „They should have puppies together!“

Walda guffawed. „That is the most ridiculous thing you said this week, Shirei. She would burst or the puppies would eat her alive from the inside out.“

„Maybe they would eat _you_ , for being so mean.“

„They probably would. They would eat us both. And their father would join them.“

„I wouldn’t eat Shirei and neither would Shaggy. He doesn’t like _you,_ because I don’t like you, because you are a Frey.“ said Rickon

„So? Shirei is a Frey too.“

Before Rickon had time to answer, the gate opened again abruptly. Davos entered, and somebody with him, and the direwolf behind the bars jumped up, put his paws on the bars and whimpered.

** Davos **

She was a true lady, if he ever saw one – that much was for sure. He could see Stannis was suspicious about her, but then he always was, about everyone and especially women.

Davos was also almost sure she really _was_ Sansa Stark. The girl’s coloring was very similar to that of the little lord Stark, although his face was a bit too childlike as of yet to make any conclusive judgments based on familial features. But the king saw the resemblance too, and he told Davos she _did_ look a lot like the Lady Catelyn Tully. „That doesn’t prove anything, of course,“ he added.

And what she disclosed... She was either an extremely skillful liar, or she told it true. _Maybe both._ Davos heard quite a lot about this man, Littlefinger, and little of it laudatory.

Either way, she seemed eager to meet the boy. She showed up before Davos‘ chambers mere minutes after the king dismissed her after their conversation was over. She put on some dry clothes and then there she was, knocking impatiently at his door. Her hair was still wet.

„My brother, Lord Hand. You said you would take me to him.“

***

The princess was with him, and so were her ladies and Devan. Shaggy was right behind the bars, whimpering.

„Your Grace. Lady Sansa Stark comes to see her brother.“

„Lady... Stark?“ Shireen stood up from where she knelt beside Walda Frey’s mastiff and turned to face them.

„Your Grace,“ Sansa Stark curtseyed, but at the same time her eyes were searching the tent. „Rickon?“ Her voice quavered, and she stood transfixed.

Lord Stark continued to pet the dog, but he looked up and considered her for a moment. „Shaggy knows you. You look like mother.“

At that, a throaty wail escaped his sister’s lips, before she covered her mouth with her hands, and soon there were tears streaming down her face. When she put her hands down again, she was smiling broadly, and she shook with sobs at the same time. Davos hadn’t seen such unrestrained display of joy for a long, long time, and he couldn’t help but smile, too, and he saw the others did the same.

Sansa Stark came forward and knelt down before her brother and before he had time to protest, she threw her arms around him.

Rickon pulled away immediately with an annoyed sound, and she let go. „I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Are you alright? Do you remember me?“

He stood up and crossed his arms. „Not much. Where have you been? Is Arya here too, or Bran? Or Jon?“

„No, just me. I don’t know where they are, I’m sorry, Rickon. I haven’t seen Arya since... since our father... since he was murdered at King’s Landing. Then it seemed for a while she was at Winterfell in the hands of the Boltons, but that wasn’t true, was it?“ She shifted her gaze searchingly to Davos, and he nodded. She didn’t seem to register Jeyne Poole as the girl shuddered at the mention of that name where she sat on the furs in the corner.

„I am so sorry, Rickon. I am so sorry it’s just me,“ Sansa seemed to remember something then and her face lit up. „I know Nymeria is still around. Arya’s wolf. Can you recall? She let her loose after she bit Joffrey, but I know she is around here somewhere. I mean, in the Riverlands.“

That surprised Davos. „You haven’t mentioned that to the king, my lady.“

„I didn’t realize it would matter to him. Besides, she is her own now, has been for years. She is not mine. I can’t control her.“

„I know she lives.“ Rickon shrugged and turned away. „You should come meet Shaggy.“

„I am not sure that is a good idea, Lord Stark. Better let them meet each other through the bars first.“

But Lord Stark’s sister already stood up and held her skirts as she walked to where her brother was opening the lock of the cage door. Then there was a loud clack and they walked out, Sansa closing the cage behind them.

Davos and everybody else in the room stretched their necks to get a better view at the – Gods, he hoped not –ensuing carnage.

_If the girl is hurt by the creature, the king will be furious._

But the black direwolf simply came towards her, sniffed at her outreached hand and then rested his muzzle against it for several moments.

Rickon didn’t looked surprised. He even seemed to forget about his sister altogether, as he reached through the bars to pull at Shirei’s braid. „Come play tag or something. You others can come too.“

To Davos astonishment, she did, giggling, and she was soon followed by Lyanna Mormont and Shireen, who led Jeyne by the hand.

Sansa

She watched them play, she watched _him_ play, because she couldn’t believe… not yet. And she was afraid, she was _terrified_ he would somehow become just a memory again if she were to look away for a shortest while.

They were both changed, both so different from what they were back when they last met. Rickon seemed to become hardened by the confirmation of his old fears, rather than – as she did – by becoming disillusioned and forced to let go of what he imagined to be true, of his dreams and fantasies of how the world was supposed to behave. She wondered which was worse.

_I need to get us to Winterfell, back home, and we will lick our wounds and heal together. With Shaggy, with Nymeria_. _We shall build a better world together, brother, you’ll see._

Or maybe she was just deceiving herself again?

She could see it already – he would grow up to become a righteous, good lord, ruling over his people just as their father did, and they will love him for it. As he was now, she could see he was a bit rough around the edges, but he was still young, there was plenty of room and time for improvement and growth and education, and she was eager to take him under her wing and teach him to trust and hope again. _Spring is here, and soon it will be summer, even in the North_.

The war was over and Sansa sat on a fur-covered stump in the godswood of Harrenhal, her feet warm, and she watched her brother run here and there, mud in his long tangled hair, mud everywhere, really, and she smiled and felt happy, truly happy, for the first time in years.

„Sansa,“ A low, shy, _familiar_ voice, and a girl to go with it, wrapped-up in a gray cloak. She sat next to Sansa and turned to face her.

There was a sad smile on the girl’s face, and Sansa realized she knew her, even older and disfigured as she was now, the tip of her nose missing; she knew that soft voice, once so bright and bold and spirited. She would have been perplexed and awestruck if she encountered this old friend of hers in different circumstances, but this seemed to be the day for reunions with souls thought long lost and missed and there was little that could really sway or surprise Sansa anymore.

„Oh, Jeyne.“ So she simply reached for her old friend and embraced her.

Because by then everything seemed a dream, really.

***

She hadn’t seen this much food on a single table for years. All the meals were simple and gruelly, so it was no royal feast, but still.

The king wasn’t present in the halls, so Sansa supposed he preferred to take his meals in his own chambers. But his daughter the princess was here, sitting right by her side, gracious and lively, as she was all day. The girl took after her father in appearance; she was tall – taller even then Sansa –, and skinny, but her disposition was thankfully much more cheerful and sociable.

Beside her and Rickon, there were five others seated at the table, some chittering with enthusiasm, some with a somber look on their face.

Sansa was so tired she find herself barely managing to maintain the customary graceful lady’s smile and her replies to the never-ending (though well-intentioned) questions left her feeling a bit dense.

But her brother didn’t seem to be about to succumb to tiredness any time soon and she was loath to let him out of her sight. She had been offered a chamber in one of the towers and she could have gotten to sleep right away, as Podrick and Edric surely had done after meeting the king. But instead, Sansa had asked for another tent to be raised up in the Godswood so she could join her brother there. Harrenhal’s interiors weren’t much more hospitable, so she wasn’t even sacrificing any comforts in it (not that she would mind).

Facing Sansa was Jeyne, quiet and smiling, the only one of the group who seemed to catch onto Sansa’s exhaustion and not trying to coax her into conversation.

Shireen’s girls were talking through one another across the table. The youngest of them, Shirei, was small and scrawny, her face and neck covered with freckles and her receding chin a testament to her lineage, as she was the youngest daughter of Walder Frey. _Walder Frey, the man responsible for the murder of my dear brother and mother._ A girl of ten, Sansa knew she was too young to had taken any part in the savagery, but listening to her giggle with mouth full of soup – so oblivious of the pain her vile sire had caused so many – made her want to shake her and scream in her face.

Rickon favored the girl though. They made faces at each other over the table, of which Sansa disapproved but did not feel like addressing right away, so soon after just finding her brother again. She had hoped to gain his trust before she would commence to mentor him, but her patience with him was growing short as the afternoon went by.

Twice during the feast the young Frey girl made Rickon laugh so hard that liquid – firs time it was soup, then lemon water – burst through his nose.

If that wasn’t enough to make Sansa wary, there was yet another Frey at the table, who happened to be the eldest living descendant of Walder Frey in the male line and the current Lady of the Twins. Despite being a grand-something-niece of Shirei Frey, she was a few years older and didn’t share much of the family resemblance; her face was well-proportioned and pretty, if a little ruddy, and she wore her strawberry blonde hair in ringlets around her shoulders. She was plump and soft and dressed in fine velvets and chiffons, and had a large dog that went everywhere with her. Shaggy liked that dog, surprisingly, but he didn’t like the girl.

Walda Frey was promised to the Hand’s eldest son, Devan Seaworth, who – although several years older than her – was timid and shy around her. His betrothed on the other hand seemed the kind of girl who didn’t had much of neither shyness nor timidness in her.

When Shireen introduced Devan to Sansa, naming him „the eldest son of my father’s Hand and soon-to-be Lord of the Twins“, Walda didn’t waste any time in clarifying the situation: „Lord of the Twins, by right of his wife,“ she had said. „By right of his wife.“ Shireen conceded graciously, inclining her head.

Walda Frey was bold and unabashed in voicing her opinion, but every once in a while the Lady of the Twins stole a long look at Sansa – clearly contemplating to approach her – and quickly averted her eyes whenever Sansa met her gaze. Sooner or later they would need to face each other and confront the reality of the matter – the bad blood, the _rancor_ –, hanging between them ominously like a swinging, double-edged pendulum.

Right next to Walda sat Lyanna Mormont. A Northerner if Sansa ever saw one, she was stocky, strong and sinewy and her hair hung in two dark braids down her back.

At one point during the feast, Sansa inquired about the circumstances of her being so far from home, and Lyanna answered with eager courtesy: "Stannis Baratheon wants to marry me to one of his fickle southron lords. You are a true Northerner, my lady, but your mother was a Tully and I’m sure she prepared you well for the South, but we Mormont women are less adaptable. All that silk and powder will make me itch and cough, I am sure.”

Sansa was quite certain of it too, given that Lyanna Mormont seemed to only be familiar with furs and warm wool, as there was no use for finery on the wild island that had been her home until only a few weeks back, or so she insisted. She wore breeches of rough skin and a fur jacket clasped with a fine bronze brooch in the shape of a standing bear, his jaws ajar.

“Whoever the lucky boy is, I'm sure he will be overjoyed to learn he is to marry a younger daughter of a lady of a wooded northern island. He will make you a beautiful bed out of all that lumber in your trousseau.” Walda Frey commented, just loud enough for Lyanna to hear, and drank from her wine goblet.

Sansa hadn’t known them for more then a few hours, yet it was obvious Lyanna Mormont and Walda Frey mixed together like water and lava, so there was bound to be steam wherever they occurred together. She decided right away not to take sides in their childish tug-of-war and to shun confrontation unless absolutely unavoidable, so she turned her attention to her meal.

“At least he gets to survive the wedding,” Lyanna spat back at Walda. Devan Seaworth looked up from his meal, confused, and blinked. Sansa put her spoon down, realizing she wasn’t hungry anymore.

“I’m sure he’s going to wish he wouldn’t.” Walda said casually.

Shireen, ever the voice of reason among her ladies, it would seem, raised her voice. “Stop it, you two. Devan, tell your betrothed to stop acting mean. Lyanna, you too. We are all friends here.”

“My lady,” Devan started, warily.

“Oh, alright. Pray forgive me, your grace. Lady Mormont. One of these days I should finally learn to guard my tongue, I am sure.”

“Just don’t be unkind, that’s all I ask.” Shireen furrowed her brows at them, obviously trying to channel her father, who was still absent from the feast room. “Lady Sansa, I assure you we usually make for a much more courtly company, but all this talk of heirs and marriages make some of my ladies act like rabid cats towards each other.”

“Princess, that is quite alright. For the past years I have grown unaccustomed to courtly company, anyway.” Sansa said.

“Is that so?” was all the princess answered, but Sansa obviously sparked her interest.

“And what _were_ you doing these past years, sister?” Rickon asked, with his mouth full to bursting, but nonetheless surprisingly intelligibly.

Sansa smiled. “We need to have a serious talk about manners together, brother.” She offered him a napkin. “Not that I personally mind these endearing demonstrations of honest, rough-hewn crudeness, but you are the Lord of Winterfell, and there are certain expectations that need to be met before a person is accepted by his smallfolk as their superior, and even more so by his nobles.” Rickon furrowed his brows and pursed his lips, which made her smile even wider.

“Good luck with that, lady Sansa.” Lyanna said, while Jeyne patted her hand over the table. “We’ve all been trying to domesticate him for weeks.”

“For months.” The princess added, smiling wide.

“Oh, but he did make quite a progress. Didn’t you, Rickon?” said Jeyne in an encouraging tone.

“I can eat with fork and knife, for example. I just choose not to. And you still didn’t answer my question, sister. That doesn’t seem very lordly or noble either.”

“Talking at length about seemingly relevant topics while avoiding to give a proper answer is another craft you will need to learn and _I_ clearly need to get better at.” A deep sigh escaped her, but it was one of those good ones, moreso of relief than either worry or sadness, and she didn’t stop smiling. “I was hiding, running. I’ve been learning. Now is not the time to get into details, but we will need to catch up on each other’s experiences soon.”

“Now you’ve gotten us all interested.” said Shireen.

“I am sure we all have our stories to tell. This war… Perhaps it is best not to dwell on the past. Certainly not over a delicious dinner such as this,” answered Sansa, picking up and raising her spoon of gruel, and she looked around the table.

She realized all were watching her and paying attention to what she said. She meant it seriously, the gruel _was_ rather delicious, but it certainly did not look especially appetizing and so the remark could have come out as mocking. Suddenly she was fretting. _Rickon needs me, there is no time nor place for mistakes on my part again._

Jeyne saved her. “It is quite good, isn’t it? There’s some hazelnuts thrown in, and… dried raspberries, is it?”

“Those hazelnuts taste more like eggshells.” sighed Rickon, pouting, “And we never have meat anymore.”

_I might lose him again, if I won’t play my part right._

Sansa continued to smile and they began talking through each other once more, but she didn’t really listen, temporarily stunned by a heaviness in her chest.

_I have grown accustomed to living without hope to meet my family again. Believing them gone, I had no fear of losing them again. There was only me._

“It’s because your wolf eats it all. And sometimes he lets you eat with him so if there’s anyone that could be sullen about the lack of meat it would be us.” Lyanna said.

“Being a bear and all that, maybe you can join them next time.” noted Walda.

_But now I have Rickon, and I have been entrusted with the legacy of our house, of my dear father and mother._ I _am the head of house Stark now._

Sansa felt helpless and scared by the situation she’d willingly and so full of confidence gotten herself into, overwhelmed by the responsibility of it. Petyr taught her well how to pull at strings and showed her the safest ways to rally men against each other, but she promised herself she would only ever use that knowledge to avoid falling trap to such manipulations herself.

_How am I to become a good regent and counselor to my brother when I am so little experienced in dealing with such things?What if I make a mistake, and innocent people will suffer for it?_

“Or,” Walda continued, her voice all honey, “maybe you can write home and ask them to send you some sheep for your next supper.”

Lyanna bit her back without a thought, sounding genuinely offended. “You are lucky you are an heiress with lands and riches, otherwise no one would suffer you at his table.”

“Oh, here we go again,” said Shirei in a tiny voice.

And now those two were starting to argue again. Sansa wondered whether there was anything she could do to loosen the tension and redirect the girls’ attention at something else, less contentious.

_I think myself good with words and better with people, yet a trivial girls’ fight leaves me stumped about how to proceed_.

The princess raised her voice. “That’s enough. I won’t tolerate such bickering at my table. Both of you, up and away. You can finish your supper after I am done with mine.” There was a cold, unrelenting resolution in Shireen’s words, but the girl’s eyes seemed more tired than angry. The girls immediately stood up, courtseyed and left – each one through different doors.

“Those two dislike each other so much I am sure if they weren’t both women my father would order them to marry one another to force them into alliance.”

Sansa wondered whether that was a strategy she was to expect to soon have to cope with herself.

“Your Grace, my betrothed has a sharp tongue and likes the sound of her voice too much, but she means no offence.” Devan spoke up, frowning and looking the way his future bride went.

“Oh but she does. I don’t understand this childish animosity between her and Lyanna. But you, Devan, seem to get along with her splendidly enough, although she doesn’t let you speak much, does she?” A playful grin appeared on the princess’ face and she inclined her head. “Don’t you fear, you will do well together. I’m sure when your mother meets her she will talk some sense into her. Oh, and lady Stark, I hope you won’t be too hard on lady Frey when she finally musters the courage to approach you. She’s watching you expectantly all day, probably thinking you will charge at her and spit in her face any moment, have you noticed? Mayhaps that is why she is so irritable today.”

“She truly isn’t a bad person, Sansa.” Jeyne gave her a reassuring smile.

“I shall keep any chastisements gentle, then.” Sansa said, trying to keep the mood light. But she felt so scatterbrained, really – she hoped the dinner would be over soon. She was surprised to realize the prospect of sleep made her excited, a true testament to her exhaustion.

***

She woke with sun in her eyes, a gentle breeze flowing in through the flap of her tent. It took her several moments to remember where she was, and when she did it made her quickly jump up out of her comfortable bedroll.

_It wasn_ _’t a dream._

After the first haziness of sleep fell away she immediately started planning for the day ahead, making a list of the responsibilities and chores and arranging them in her head to fit effectively together. She felt elated there were concrete things she could do to change her current position, and Rickon’s, instead of being required to stay silent and obey or forced to follow someone else’s plan for what she would become – and appear thankful about it.

_Or even worse, to be stifled into place where I could neither move nor scream._

She washed herself, brushed her hair and dressed as quickly as she could, hopping around on one foot in the process as she unsuccessfully tried to put on her stockings while traversing the tent towards the chest of drawers by the cloth wall. The maid – together all the ladies in King Stannis‘ ever-growing procession had only a handful of handmaidens that traveled with them, Medlar being purportedly the most skilled of them – said she would leave her dress there after laundering. And there it was – clean, mended and even scented with lavender, but it was still the same well-worn loose woolen garment that, in a Lady’s wardrobe, wouldn‘t ever pass even for a traveling dress. But, alas, it was the only dress Sansa had left and, truth be told, it didn’t bothered her nearly as much as it probably should.

_I have become quite brazen._ _Arya would approve and we would finally laugh together._

Not caring was well and good, but there was etiquette to follow at court and expectations to meet, and she would need to get a new wardrobe sewn for herself when they arrive at King’s Landing – and for Rickon, too. Kirtles and gowns both, and doublets of velvet for her brother. She planned to embroider them herself if she could find the time.

She missed her embroidery lessons; the smoothness of silk thread and the sweetness of lemoncakes – in King’s Landing with Jeyne and Myrcella there were even lute players and frolicking fawns in the gardens – but those were pastimes for an untroubled maiden without a care in the world, and she wasn’t one of those any longer.

_Neither is Jeyne, poor girl._

They were leaving Harrenhal in two days’ time, and she wanted to have all the available information concerning the current standings in the North in order by the time they would reach the capitol, preferably written down.

_First the lord Hand. Then I must speak with the maesters and consult the state of and options for my brother’s education._

And she needed to get into correspondence with the stewards up in Winterfell as soon as possible, and hopefully manage to coax Rickon to partake in drafting the letters.

Shaggy lay on the grass in front of the tents with his eyes open, but Rickon was nowhere to be found. She felt a tinge of anger; she asked him before they went to bed that he should not let her sleep in case he awoke first.

A guard by the gate told her the young lord had gone, “as he is wont to do in the morning”. He told her she would find him either in the hall breaking his fast, or with the horses, or in the training yard, and he proposed to call her an escort, which Sansa declined.

She left the godswood and made her way to the dining hall across the spacious yard and around the ditches and puddles, lifting up her skirt and patiently watching her steps. There were men walking, riding by and they nodded their heads and uttered “my lady” and several even offered her their horses to ride. Sansa wasn’t sure whether they intended to walk by her or ride double or whether, judging by their cocky smiles, they meant something else entirely, but she politely said no to all of them, as she did to a rather suspiciously courteous old knight in armor polished to a magnificent blue when he offered to “ _carry the lady to her destination_ ”.

The hall was half-empty, busy and noisy, and she walked around the periphery of the room stepping over sleepy hounds and searched carefully for a wisp of auburn hair in the crowd, but there was no younger brother of hers to be found.

Although she felt a bit compelled to explore the area on her own, the ever-strenghtening inner voice of the elder sister and regent overruled that tendency, deeming it irresponsibly indulgent. She asked a guard for directions to the nearest stables and he eagerly proceeded to utterly confuse her with a disorganized mumble of hand-gestures, recounting of shortcuts and not-so-handy landmarks on the location of which he corrected himself several times. Sansa sensed he knew the way and was just clumsy with words so she suggested he escort her to the place, to which he agreed to with a relieved smile. (For some reason Sansa thought it was nice to see, such a little thing though it was, and often overlooked – a genuine happy smile.)

He led her out and about, and she tried to remember the way. As they passed a long flight of stairs leading – as he informed her – to the sleeping quarters of the tower house she heard quickly descending footsteps behind her and a voice called out to her: “Lady Stark?”

It was Walda Frey. Her dog was by her side, slavering with impunity, donning a studded collar with turquoise ruffles. Walda wore gown of the same fabric, a bejeweled diadem and numerous rings on her fingers. She looked pretty.

“Lady Stark,” the girl curtseyed. Her dog sat down and let out an impatient growl.

“Lady Frey,” Sansa curtseyed back, but did not bow her head.

Walda joined her hands. “I understand this may not be the best time for us to talk, but if you could spare just a moment, I need to speak to you. With you alone, that is. That’s why I haven’t spoken to you before when we were together yesterday. It will… only take a moment.”

“Do you know the way to the stables?”

“I do,”

“Take me, then. Thank you for you company, Ser,” she smiled at the guard and nodded her head, dismissing him.

Walda waited as he walked back through the corridor and closed the door behind him, and she looked around as if to be sure no one would disturb them or bear witness to what was she about to say.

Then she stepped up to Sansa and put her arms down and took a heavy breath.

“Lady Stark. I’ve been thinking a long time about what could I say to you to put my family’s crimes behind us. I found that the only thing I can do is to let you know where I, as a current head of the house Frey, stand about the issue, that is, my forbears’ deplorable acts towards your family.” At that, she joined her hands again. “I am _horrified_ even after all these years many of my house conspired against your family and assisted in the murder of your brother and mother. It left a taint on our house that shall never be erased; it was an injustice that will never be forgotten. I wish there was more that I could do, but I can only pick up from where my forbears have fallen and suffer the consequences for their sins and hope for your forgiveness. I pray in time the house Frey can once again become respectable under the just authority of our king.”

Walda spoke without a pause, articulating carefully, and although it was obvious she had memorized the monologue beforehand, her words didn’t came out forced. Sansa saw care in the girl’s eyes that felt genuine, and the sincerity of the speech was accentuated by Walda’s dog looking up to her mistress with sad resignation, seemingly aware of the heaviness of her tone.

“I am thankful for your words, Lady Frey.”

Sansa hesitated for a moment.

_What words would my father have for her? What would my mother’s answer be? Or my brother’s, if he wasn’t a headless corpse by deed of this girl’s kin?_

“What your family did is abominable in the eyes of gods and people and it shall never be forgotten. But those responsible for the plot are all dead. Your house has a new leader and I can assure you I don’t hold a personal grudge against her, against you. I think every one person should be held accountable for their crimes, for their _own_ crimes only. Let us look ahead instead of clinging to the past. I would hope that the future relations of our houses with each other be nothing but amicable.” Sansa extended her hand towards her and when the girl took it, she squeezed her fingers gently. “A new beginning, then. But you need to find common ground with my brother. And with lady Mormont, too. The Mormonts are sworn to the Starks, and it won’t do for you to shun each other in acrimony if we are to be allies again. Let us all share this king’s peace, together, in peace.”

Walda squeezed her hand back and bowed her head. There was earnest determination in the gesture that Sansa appreciated.

_To grant forgiveness and assume good will – is that what they would have done?_ Sansa wasn’t sure. _All the Gods help me, but it is what I shall do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the grammar, as always. There wasn’t much Stannis in this one, but we are getting there, don’t you worry. (I have some delicious scenes written in advance.)  
> This time around, a lot of new characters have been introduced; I hope I did them at least some justice in fleshing them out (I have to say I’ve grown quite fond of them in the process :) ).  
> Also and by the way – I like to get the feel of characters I write/think about for myself by browsing my old portraits folders and choosing those that fit their physical description and their personality and demeanor the best.  
> If you would like to see which portraits I picked for whom, they are collected on my pinterest:  
> [ Sansa ](http://www.pinterest.com/edralis/sansa-stark-historical-portraits-reinterpreted)  
> [ Stannis, Selyse and Shireen ](http://www.pinterest.com/edralis/stannis-baratheon-selyse-florent-shireen-historica)  
> [ the Freys introduced in this chapter (Walda and Shirei)](http://www.pinterest.com/edralis/freys-historical-portraits-reinterpreted)  
> [ Rickon; including some portraits of him as an adul](http://www.pinterest.com/edralis/rickon-stark-historical-portraits-reinterpreted)  
> [ other characters (some of them will play part in this story in the future chapters)](http://www.pinterest.com/edralis/various-asoiaf-characters-historical-portraits-rei)  
> Thank you for reading and for your patience with my slow work!  
> (Also exercising my best puppy eyes I kindly encourage you all to write your own Stannis/Sansa fic, as there are too few of them for such a delicious pairing (with such a fascinatingly complex dynamic!).)


	4. Crossroads

## Sansa        

The road was muddy and the weather uncooperative as they trudged their way to King’s Landing. Shaggy had to stay locked in his cage without any hope of being let out for those several days that it took them to reach their destination. Rickon was understandably upset about that, although he was well acquainted with the routine by now. The smell of horses, the constant din of people and rolling wagons and the lack of freedom made the direwolf extremely irritable, and although his cage was left covered, people tended to keep a healthy distance from it as they went about their way.

Shaggy’s earlier friendly attitude towards Sansa and Rickon’s friends turned to distrust and sometimes to outright snarling hostility. He bared his teeth at her and his hackles were raised if she ever found herself near him. Sansa understood then the real danger of having the direwolf around, regardless of how controlled and affectionate he might seem to behave at most times, albeit Sansa was certain he would never _purposely_ hurt Rickon, or even people close to him.

Rickon was the only person that Shaggy tolerated in his vicinity, but Sansa found herself worried even for him, and asked Rickon to refrain from entering the cage, and somewhat grudgingly she instructed his guards to stop him in case he tried to disregard her request. She was upset with herself for having to go to such lengths to control him, but it was only for a few days and she wasn’t about to take any risks. Rickon was wroth with her about it too, of course, and spent most of the time sitting at the box seat next to the coachman in charge of the wagon, an old man with yellow skin that spoke but little, but wouldn’t stop smiling – a happy-go-lucky, toothless smile.

The cage-wagon was pulled by two lent destriers, fearless beasts, as no ordinary draft horses would bear to be near it. She had been told the horses, unaccustomed to such work as they were, were clueless and annoyed when they were first engaged thus, but they were well trained and brave and in the end they were coaxed to cooperate with one another. By now they seemed to become content with their lot, and unperturbed by the fearsome noises Shaggy wouldn’t stop making.

Sansa had consulted the issue with the Lord Hand and it was decided her brother’s wolf was to be kept enclosed within the Red Keep’s godswood – small as it was, practically no one had any reason entering there, and Sansa found it preferable to keeping the direwolf locked in a cage in the kennels. Rickon wanted to keep Shaggy with him as one would a pet dog, as he used to back in Winterfell – and she herself and Arya and Robb and Bran and Jon did with theirs, too. But that was in Winterfell, and besides, their direwolves had been but pups back then. Shaggy was a full-grown direwolf now, too large, too wild, too unpredictable to be kept at court. He would have been miserable himself. The Red Keep was simply no place for him, and Sansa suspected it would be the same with his master. _And_ his sister.

‘ _We all belong to the North. We should have never left_.’

Rickon spent most of his life on the road – _off_ of it, really, but certainly in the rough and on the run. It would take some time for him to get accustomed to the environment of a stable residence – of a city. And even more time to get used to life at court. It was going to be different in Winterfell, easier, for sure, but for now, he as well as she herself were going to have to get used to the idea of spending their days inside the walls of the Red Keep.

Sansa traveled for the most part with the princess‘ retinue. They had a comfortable carriage for their own use, but it was too small to carry even half of them, so they swapped their places inside regularly and the rest of them rode. Princess Shireen spent half the time with her father, but when she was around, they talked together a lot – about Rickon, about their favorite stories, about Shireen’s love for books and music and then, when they happened to ride alone together, the princess got to talking about what happened at the Wall, about giants and wildlings, about lady Melisandre and her fires. And about Jon. Regardless of how much of the stories that Sansa was told about him was true, and how much of it was exaggeration or plain fancy, Sansa planned to write him a long letter as soon as she could, and she hoped very much he would write her back. She hoped she would be able to visit him in a few years, with Rickon and Shaggy – how sweet would that be, to see him again.

Shireen was a lively company, and she was kind and had a warm smile. She was also very bright and well articulated – remarkably so, considering her age. Sansa learned she liked to draw and that she could play a little lute, and reveled in geometry and astronomy, of all things, which were topics Sansa knew nothing about. It was obvious she was better read than Sansa, and educated more thoroughly, as a princess and heir to the throne would.

So she rode with the princess, occasionally accompanied by Rickon, but oftentimes with Jeyne. Now Jeyne was as much a pleasant person to be with as Sansa remembered her, although they were both changed, hardened. Still, there were some evenings that Sansa found herself almost forgetting the unkind years they had to face; there were moments when they giggled like two carefree children, three, if Shireen was with them. Sansa wondered whether Jeyne would like to come with them when the time came for her and Rickon to return to Winterfell. But she seemed much devoted to the princess Shireen – she was her lady in waiting– and Sansa wouldn’t want to force her to choose between them.

Podrick was assigned to assist the master of the horse and she rarely ever saw him, but Edric sometimes came around to talk. He seemed well-rested and eager: „I can’t wait to get back to my lands. It’s too long since I’ve seen my home. You know that feeling very well, I know.“ He gave her a sad smile. „My aunt Allyria should be managing the estates now. I sent her a raven from Harrenhal; I hope I will find her well.“

Everyday new nobles joined up on the king’s march to capital, and so the procession grew as they neared the city.

Martyn Lannister came with Lannister guard several dozen men strong. The fourteen-year-old Lord of Casterly Rock, brother to Lancel and son of Kevan Lannister, he was blonde and green-eyed and his voice was just breaking. He seemed very much a boy still when he awkwardly introduced himself to Shireen; he mentioned he came ahead of his mother and sister – who were to join him at court – in order to attend the ceremony.

From the Iron Islands, there came a flaxen-haired knight clad in black and white; his black cloak was held together by a golden brooch in the shape of a kraken, but his surcote was white and embroidered with a triple spiral. „Justin Massey, consort to Asha Greyjoy, the Lady of the Iron Islands,“ he introduced himself. He reminded her a little bit of Theon, all grin and swagger.

And two days after they departed from Harrenhal her uncle Edmure Tully, the Lord of Riverrun, caught up with the procession and sought her out. Sansa remembered her mother mentioning him once in a while, and from the way she talked about him Sansa thought that perhaps he was a little brother to her in the same way Rickon was to herself.

„My lady,“ he called her, and then: „Niece.“ He had a bushy red beard and wore a blue doublet and a somewhat uneasy smile as he kissed her gloved hand. He shook his head and let out a nervous laugh. „Oh but you resemble your mother so much,“

( _You have all the beauty of your mother, he said to her.)_

„Thank you, uncle. What a delight to meet you, at last.“

He continued, and he sneered as he spoke, his teeth gleaming. „The delight is mutual, but mine is quite spoiled after having come face to face with the Lady of the Twins here. She was chatting away merrily with another one of the Freys, all dressed up in silk and lace. She curtsied and called me „Lord Edmure“. Wretched girl. I can’t even think of her house’s name without anger raising up in my chest.“ He spurted out his words as if he was waiting a long time to let them out. „You know my wife was born a Frey herself. I see her everyday, one would have thought I got accustomed to her name after the years. She is a good woman, a good mother, kind and loving... But I won’t ever forget.“ His smiled turned sad and bitter. „Your mother... she was so worried, always worried, when we last met, about you and your siblings, about me, about how things were going to turn out.“

Sansa herself didn’t feel angry at the girl, or at least she wasn’t aware of it – perhaps she stifled the anger and buried it deep inside, or perhaps she was never a person to nurse grudges. „Walda Frey is just a young girl. The house is largely extinct in the male line, and the name will soon follow. The Lady of the Twins herself won’t stay a Frey much longer,“ She offered, a meager consolation.   
„I know. I approved the match myself, although I would much rather have both the damned castles grazed to the ground and the girl married off to a hedge knight. Still, it should be _some_ sort of comfort that soon there will be onions flying above the Green Fork.“

They were both silent for a while. With their reins loosened, their horses walked lazily in the midday warmth. The click-clack of their hooves on the road grew almost synchronised.

„But I forget myself. These are your sorrows, too.“ Her uncle spoke at last.

Sansa was eager to change the topic. Gods knew she spent too much time thinking on the dead on her own, she didn’t need her uncle to remind her and to wallow in the sadness of it with her. So instead she turned to living. „I hear you are a father.“

She expected him to cheer up immediately, but his voice stayed wary. „Roslin gave me a son, he’ll be three and a half in a few weeks. And she’s pregnant again, so he’ll also be a brother soon. Sweet little boy. And he looks like me, everybody says.“

„I‘m sure he does. Is it true you named him Robb, after my brother?“

„Roslin suggested it, after I almost throttled the insolent prick who suggested that we name him _Walder_. I hope you don’t find it inappropriate. Your great-uncle approved. And when I have a daughter, she will be called Catelyn, after your mother. She was the finest woman I ever knew, Sansa.“

And so they spent the evening talking about the family they had lost anyway. Memories sweet and bitter, and altogether wistful. She asked Rickon to join them, but he declined, preferring instead to spar with some squires. „I don’t remember mother and father. I don’t remember Robb. And I don’t want to talk about them,“ he told her.

Sansa didn’t want to talk about them either, but perhaps it was for the best that she did. It seemed her uncle needed it; he grew less tense as the evening waned. When he departed to his tent for the night, he seemed almost cheerful.

„Had I known you would be here, I would have brought you some of your mother’s old books and jewelry. Be sure to visit us on your way back to Winterfell, or wherever you find yourself traveling next, you and your brother. And your great-uncle will be delighted to meet you, I’m sure. Or perhaps I will send him to visit you after I return to Riverrun. He might want to serve you both, for Cat’s sake.“

***

Edmure gifted her an ornamented clasp in the shape of a leaping trout, one of a pair. The other one he gave to Rickon, who thanked him grudgingly, but it didn’t seem to get him out of his sulking reverie. He supplied Sansa with parchment, as she found herself writing on scraps since they left Harrenhal. And some of the northern ladies gifted Sansa linens and, if they had, a spare gown, seeing as she was in dire need of proper clothing.

Sansa came to the king with her hands bare, with only her name, the clothes on her back, and a lathered horse. She ate of his supplies, used his ink, and was served by his servants – by law, she was the Lady of Winterfell, regent to her brother, and all North belonged to her, but North was plundered after war, laid bare after winter.

Back in Harrenhal, there were plenty of Northerners still around, but when the king left for King’s Landing, most of them turned the other way around, back home north. They had come to her to swear their fealty as her brother’s regent, but most of them hadn’t much to spare, and they already made sure Rickon, as their lord, was well supplied for the last several months.

Truth be told, Sansa was used to subsisting on almost nothing, and even that of questionable quality. She was used to weeks of accumulated dirt on her clothes and skin – not that she was proud of it –, used to eating mean porridge and sucking marrow from bones. However, now that she was a lady again, it would not do.

But what little remained of her house’s riches was left at Winterfell, at the disposal of the current stewards delegated by the crown, the Lords Keepers. Sansa wrote them to send her supplies, but it would be months till they came – if they indeed find it convenient to send to her, without urging from the king or his Hand. And until then she had to rely on others to provide her and her brother with anything they could need.

Edric had it the same, and Sansa was sure there were others like them, noble lords and perhaps even ladies who wandered off during the war just to reappear at the new king’s court, improvised as it was, to claim their inheritance. The new king had to feed them and clothe them, because he needed them, needed their names. And all that from the crown’s own coffers – unless there was a convenient minor lord to pay for his own overlord’s expenses, like her own poor Northerners were.

As the king and his retinue, noble and common alike, progressed down the Kingsroad they oftentimes passed peasants at work. Or an inn, just recently reoccupied after it has been deserted during the war, its previous retainers probably put to sword or hanged. The land and its people were just as sad a reminder of the atrocities of war around here as they were in Riverlands. The fields and vineyards and gardens had been scorched, the villages burned, the people terrorised to helplessness.

_‚A sad king riding through his sad country. With a sad court of beggars, passing by the sad peasants who feed them.‘_

Sansa would be the happiest to leave for Winterfell as soon as she fetched her brother from Harrenhal and got the dispensations signed by his hand. But the king insisted on Rickon being raised at court. She supposed he didn’t trust her, and didn’t even trust the Lords Keepers he installed in Winterfell with their own lord.

Now the king – she only caught glimpses of him from afar, but he was always easily spotted, although not for the clothes he wore, which were plain enough. Stannis Baratheon was a dark spectre as he made his way through the procession, brusque in his movements, a man seemingly always with a purpose in mind. His default expression was an irritated scowl, which deepened each time he found himself in conversation, regardless of who he was talking to – with the only exception of his daughter. Yet even with her, he never seemed to smile. On the contrary, his daughter guarded her countenance around him so as not to appear too cheerful, as if it was improper to come near the king with an untroubled heart.

They were halted a few miles before the city proper to form up. All the nobles on their horses and in their carts were called to form the vanguard of the procession. They were instructed to wear visible representations of their houses, and most had put on emblazoned tabards or cloaks and their horses were caparisoned in the colors of their houses. Sansa had to make do with a wolf skin wrapped around her shoulders.

She was relieved to learn Shaggy was not to be paraded around the city as she had feared, but his cage was instead relegated to the back of the convoy and it was to enter the city together with the supply trains, after the nobles made their triumphant ride through the streets and into the Red Keep.

Several of the highest nobles, including herself and her uncle Edmure, were ushered by the herald to join the king in front as his banner-bearers. Sansa had never borne banners before, but she considered herself competent enough rider to give it a try, and did not deem it wise to protest the charge. It was, of course, a display of the king’s power, a matter of parading the very tangible forces that supported his cause before the city – in the persons of the highest of his nobles. But it was also considered an honor, and either way, Sansa didn’t mind.

The king sat a fresh horse, a spirited stallion with wild eyes. This Sansa found somewhat surprising, as Stannis didn’t seem to be the sort of man who found pleasure in riding temperamental mounts. He didn’t seem to possess the patience for them, nor the need for forceful self-assertion some men got from subduing them. Rather, she would pick him for a man who appreciated horses that were well-behaved and dutiful – and indeed, those were the sorts of mounts he usually preferred. He was also appareled much more regally – he wore fine black armor traced with gold scrollwork, and his cloak was also black, but there was no gold on it. The crown on his bald head shimmered even though the sky was overcast. He did truly look a king then; albeit a humorless and demure one, but perhaps that was what the realm needed these days.

Princess Shireen rode just several paces behind him, followed by the Lord Hand. She had her long black hair loose, and was clad in a golden cape. Davos Seaworth’s horse was a handsome gray mare and her bridle was gilded, but the only adornment Lord Davos himself wore was the chain of golden hands around his neck.

After the princess and the Lord Hand came Sansa and the other high nobles bearing the royal banners. On both sides they were surrounded by the king’s personal guard. The rest of the nobles and various officials, all bearing their houses‘ insignia, closed up the procession. Rickon was among them, with Shirei riding by his side trying to cheer him up.

The king’s coat of arms, shining gold and red, fluttered above her own, the colors of her House looking somber in comparison despite their being rendered in silk. It felt good to hold onto the pole, to carry her House’s banner and to raise it high for all to see – it felt a bittersweet victory to be back in the capital again after all these years, a free woman again, as much as she was ever like to get.

Truth be told, Sansa had expected to become anxious and fretful the moment she would first catch glimpse of the city on the horizon, but now she was riding through its streets to the Red Keep and all she felt was a sort of tranquil, melancholy resoluteness.

‘ _We are the last wolves of Winterfell_ _’_ , Sansa thought wistfully and looked back over her shoulder at Rickon.

In the songs, the triumphal royal entry was a grand affair, an epic ceremony full of ostentation – a splendid spectacle for the masses with allegorical floats and mummers and tableaux vivants. The cityfolk were supposed to greet their king with joyful enthusiasm, cheer him as he rode through the streets with a raised hand and a benevolent smile, his magnificent horse barded in gold.

But there was no indulged pageantry today – not after all the years of war, and not with this king.

Instead, the procession was orderly and peaceful, dignified but unembellished.

The streets they marched through were as busy, and slightly dirtier, as she remembered them. The common folk that flocked to watch their new king's procession was a sorry lot. Sansa supposed they were tired of war, of violence and hunger and winter. There were women with weathered faces with toddlers clutching at their skirts, old men, crippled men – many of them ragged beggars - and little groups of half-naked children, apparently orphans. Only few cheered and smiled, but no one spat or cursed or shouted or tried to pull her off her horse. Their eyes were tired; they looked as if all fight had left them, and they had resigned themselves to being at the mercy of the next man with strength enough to call himself their overlord. If any of them disapproved, they did it silently and from a distance.

Sansa pitied them. She tried to encourage them with a kind smile – but they didn't smile back, and their gaze was incredulous.

Behind the gates of the Red Keep they were greeted by the nobles already present at court, chief among them the extremely portly and jovial Wyman Manderly, the new Master of Laws. There were many others – various wards of the crown, noble officials and courtiers that hadn’t left the court since Tommen was calling himself king. They seemed content, or at least resigned, to forget their previous loyalties, as all of them bend the knee as soon as the king halted his horse.

Sansa watched Devan run and the Lord Hand walk with as quick a pace as the dignity of his position would allow him towards what she presumed were his two youngest sons and his wife, the Lady Seaworth. A kind looking woman, she sobbed as her family was reunited, and Sansa found herself vicariously teary-eyed, too.

***

Every day, Sansa was up and in her papers by the first light. She was re-reading the last several months’ worth of messages and reports she received about the situation in the North, and noting things down to discuss them over with a Maester or another if she wasn't sure about a detail here or there. Her chamber was small, much smaller than the last one she had had in King's Landing, but it was well-furnished and smelled sweet of fresh strewn rushes. She asked the steward for a writing table and a very fine one had been provided for her, its top and sides decorated with marquetry of intricate pattern of birds and leaves. She was also provided with a lady’s maid of her own who came to dress her in the morning and brush her hair and take care of her bath, a young woman who seemed to be frightened of her even though Sansa spoke to her kindly. Despite her initial worries, it wasn’t hard to fall back into the role of a lady – Sansa hadn’t forgotten how to bear herself while wearing a court gown, how to speak and even how to embroider. After spending months and years taking care of her own needs, and oftentimes helping others who weren’t as fortunate as to be able to do so, it was a little queer to be served by another person, but she found it was much easier to grow used to comforts and to start taking them for granted soon after that, than it was to grow accustomed to the lack of them after one was forced to give them up.

After a few days in the capital, Sansa was becoming more hopeful about her brother’s progress. He was bright and naturally curious, and quick and agile in the training yard. What he lacked for the most was discipline and focus, but she hoped that would soon be remedied by his being taken up to serve as page for the king’s cousin Andrew Estermont. The late king Robert’s bastard Edric Storm squired for him, and they both were just recently returned from Essos. Rickon didn’t seem to mind his new responsibilities, and he took an instant liking to Edric. Adding to his new duties and chores, Sansa fetched him every few days to go over the matters in the North. The success of her endeavor depended much upon whether she caught him in the morning, after his training with the sword but before his lessons with the Maesters, or in the afternoon, when his concentration was at its lowest point during the day. When they had but a few papers to go through, she took them down to the Godswood, as Rickon was more cooperative and less fidgety when Shaggy was around. The direwolf calmed down, thank the gods, after a few days of getting accustomed to the new space and smells of the Godswood.

***

Red Keep was swarming with nobles, and more arrived every day. In a few days, the king was to hold court before the eyes of the crowd, seated amidst the twisted steel of the Iron Throne in his crown and mantle, trumpets heralding. One after another the lords and ladies would come to bend their knee and say their words of fealty, and graciously receive the king’s acknowledgment of their status. Those that would neither come themselves nor send an envoy in their place would be formally stripped of their titles, their lands and their riches, and new lords would be appointed to take their place.

And so they came, some eagerly enough, some grudgingly and some, the most clueless of them all, smiling and groveling.

Garlan Tyrell returned from Highgarden. He came alone, although Sansa heard whispers Margaery Tyrell – now thrice a widow – was to come too. She overheard several remarks on the topic,

_(“They say she has it in her mind to seduce the king and wear the crown once more.”)_

but concluded it tasteless nonsense, or, regardless, none of her business. Still, she would like to see Margaery again, although she was not sure what would they say to each other.

Ser Garlan sought her out, and at first she thought it was a matter of simple courtesy, sitting down to speak a few words with who was once supposed to be his sister-in-law. But to her surprise, soon he was talking about the match with his brother as of an actual possibility.

„It can be done, if it is what my lady still desires. My brother would be delighted to take you for his wife. The unfortunate incident that prevented...“ he shook his head. „I feel like a fool. _Unfortunate incident_. You are not a little girl anymore to be led around by colorful words. My lady, the matter is simple enough. We – and I speak for House Tyrell, of course – still have a lot to offer to each other. Especially now that you are free to marry. We are not as rich as we used to be before the war, before the winter, but nobody is. Highgarden is still beautiful, flowering again, my brother is a good man, and you will find a pleasant companion in Margaery, and she in you.“

„Isn’t Margaery coming to court?“

He shook his head. „Not if she can avoid it. She is weary of court. My lady, think about the offer. Perhaps you feel we have done you wrong, and perhaps you are right. My brother was never part of it, though. My grandmother... She bears you no ill will.“

„My place is by my brother’s side. I seek no husbands. Not now, anyway.“

He laid his palm on her hand, but it didn’t felt patronising. He shook his head. „My lady, I don’t require answer now. Not even in a year. My brother is… a patient man. Think about it.” And then he changed topic and didn’t bring it up for the rest of their meeting, which was amiable enough.

The Tyrells were however not the only ones who took notice of the annulment and considered her for a prospective match.

Wallace Waynwood had asked for her hand directly the day he arrived at the capital. Sansa learned that after Littlefinger’s death, the Vale had been ruled by Anya Waynwood and the other Lords Declarant. They managed to retrieve – or they claimed to have done so – the lost daughter of Alys Arryn, Harry’s aunt Ereena. The unfortunate girl had been carried off by burned men years ago when she was on her way to marry a Bracken, and over the years bore several children to their local chieftain. Now she was carried off and brought back to the Vale to become the Lady of the Eyrie. And, as she was conveniently recently widowed, she was married to Anya Waynwood’s eldest son, Wallace’s brother, and her children proclaimed bastards.

Even Lord Manderly seemed to hint at his recently widowed state and his need for a new wife a little too often when she found herself in his company. He obviously brought out the matter half in jest, but only half.

The Lannisters and Martells, Andrew Estermont, whom Rickon served, and Lester Morrigen and a few other minor lords from the Stormlands – who had grown quite bold by the new lands with which they had been rewarded after the war for their service to the king –, had all expressed their interest. To all of them she told the same she did Garlan.

‘ _If I should ever marry, let it be someone I know well. Someone I know is good and kind_.’

Many that were already married or hadn’t got a son or a nephew to offer her often mentioned they had a spare young daughter around, but she supposed _that_ matter could also wait a few more years. For now, Rickon had enough on his plate as it was.

## Shireen

She found him as he usually was when she came to see him in his chambers. Her father sat hunched over his writing desk, and was in the process of writing on a piece of parchment – another letter, perhaps. Twin hemispherical black stones were placed in the corners of the roll, weighing it down.

„Father,“ He lifted his head and seemed surprised that she was there. She felt almost guilty to be interrupting him.

„Shireen.“

„You said we could sup together, and it’s almost dusk. Should I come tomorrow?”

He looked back to what he was writing, then back at her, and pursed his lips. The skin at his eyes crinkled. Shireen gathered her breath to say goodbye, but he spoke first.

“There won’t be any less work to do tomorrow, nor any more time to have it done.” He sounded strained and looked resigned. “Come, close the door and sit down. Just let me finish this.”

There was a pitcher of water with slices of lemon in it on the table, a single, empty glass, and a tray of black table grapes, untouched.

Father put his quill down and stopped the inkpot, wiping his hands on a piece of ink-stained cloth as he stood up from his desk to join her by the table.

„At what times should I be visiting you? I do not mean to distract you from your work.“

He touched her back as he passed her by to sit at the opposite site of the table.

„As I said, the work is never done.“

„So, we just have to squeeze the moments in, don’t we?“ Shireen said, trying to sound cheerful. „Oh, the supper.“ She jumped up, gesturing with her hand to her father to keep sitting – but he stood up anyway – and asked the guard by the door to call onto somebody to have their meals brought in.

She sat back down and looked across the table at her father. For the past months – after the war – he gained only a little of his weight back, and he seemed as pale and weary as ever. She hoped despite herself that now that they had finally settled in the capital her father would find some time to wind down, at least a little bit. But she also knew him too well to truly believe that.

She knew he had enough counselors and helpers as it was – he would probably say _too_ many – yet she couldn’t help but ask if she could be of any assistance to him.

He seemed taken aback. „You have your own duties to attend to, have you not? We both have. Let me see to mine, as you do to yours.“ He considered the matter a bit longer, casting a glance at her. „I should say that now that we are at court, those duties will only increase. To start with, the council meetings begin next week. You were already informed about that, by Maester Pylos or Maester Lyonell, surely. And about the private sessions. The Grand Maester will discuss the proceedings of every session with you after they take place. He also recommended several scholars to serve as your tutors – law and administration, mostly. And military tactics, you need to be introduced at least to the basic theory. Although you will never wield the sword yourself, you may very well find yourself commanding an army. The Maesters have been sent for, they will come in a few weeks‘ time.“ Shireen knew, and was quite looking forward to it. The Grand Maester seemed an interesting and kind person, and the Maesters that were to come to tutor her were quite renown in their fields. „So, if you do not feel your time is fully engaged, you shall soon enough.“

She always took care to pay due attention to her studies, which she knew were much, much broader and deeper than that as were normally undertaken by a noble girl – or a boy, for that matter. The curriculum of a typical lady hardly included anything apart from household management, some basic finance, etiquette and heraldry, and what was called accomplishments, including music and falconry. But _she_ studied, over the years, history, heraldry, geography, literature, political philosophy, logic and mathematics and rhetorics, and economics and governance. And Valyrian. Apart from etiquette and religion, and the usual womanly skills, like embroidery. She also danced and she sometimes assisted Mother with her tapestries, although she usually felt like she was hindering her work rather than helping her. Most of all Shireen enjoyed studying astronomical charts of various sorts, geometry and drawing. She also liked listening to poetry, and, although not a particularly skilled lute player, she read a lot about musical theory. But these were all frivolous activities based on what was expected of her to excel at as the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

„I know the constant travel these past years was not helpful to the progress of your education. You need to get caught up on your curriculum.“ Her father continued. „Take your education seriously, as you have always done, there is nothing more helpful or useful you could do. You are to rule the realm, unless a brother is born to you. Until then, your duty is to prepare for that responsibility.“

Shireen gave a nod.

„A brother, you say? Do you mean to wed again?“

„Yes,“ he answered immediately, although she sensed some hesitation in his voice, „and sooner rather than later. Gods know it leaves a sour taste in my mouth.“

„I would certainly like a brother.“

„Be careful what you wish for, you may just well get it, and it may not be as pleasant as you imagine,“ he said bitterly, and Shireen knew he was thinking of his own brothers then. She knew her uncles very little, and her father rarely ever spoke of them, at least not to her, but she did know there were never close, and that her uncle Robert did father injustice when he gave Storm’s End, the ancestral seat of House Baratheon, to the youngest of them, Renly.

„Or a sister,“ she added, thinking of Jeyne, or Sansa.

„I reckon they may be even worse.“

She bit her lip.

„Do you _want_ to marry?“

„It’s not a matter of personal preference, you know that very well.“

„You are the king, surely if you do not desire it, you can’t be forced...“

„It’s not about _being forced_ either.“

„It’s about duty,“ she finished for him. He gave a curt nod.

„A duty that you yourself need to start to get ready for soon,“ Father let out a heavy sigh. “It was ill done on my part to let you entertain my vassals’ wives and daughters while we talked alliances. The matters will be ruminated over again and again at the council meetings, sure, but you should have been there to hear the proposals laid out for yourself. The Tyrells and the Martells, the young Lord Dayne, your turncloak cousin Alyn Estermont, young Brynden Blackwood and several other lords from the North and the Stormlands – all came begging for your hand. Even Lannisters, despite their disgrace.”

“So you gave them poor Lyanna instead, I hear. How utterly unfitting. She isn’t going to like it at Casterly Rock.”

“Kevan Lannister’s widow isn’t keen on having her for a daughter-in-law either. And lest I forget it has been suggested her daughter should marry the boy Lord Stark. I detest this matchmaking,” he sighed and stroked the bridge of his nose. “I think your mother would have enjoyed it.”

Shireen smiled. “Yes, she would. And she would have enjoyed sitting by your side. The deference that would have been due to her, the majesty. But the intrigue and gossip, not so much.” She would have always been complaining in private of being tired of it all, and not having enough time for anything, but Shireen could imagine her being proudly invested in the matters of the court. She would have enjoyed interrogating the noble girls come under her care and picking suitors for Shireen and finding faults in them. “I miss her sometimes. I know you were never close…” She let her voice falter off. She was hoping her father would talk of her some more, more often. He rarely ever mentioned her. But in the end, given the spirit of her parents’ relationship with each other, that was probably for the best.

She remembered her mother vividly, her stern face, her severe voice. When her mother spoke to her, it was usually in instructions, directions, imperatives. “Don’t do that, Shireen, it doesn’t become you. A princess never talks like that. Listen to what I say. Do as I tell you. Don’t bother your father.” But not _always_. She remembered the sound of her breathing when they were sitting together by the fireplace, the fire crackling, Mother looking up from her sewing and smiling at her. Shireen remembered her mother’s hands, always cold and dry, when she guided Shireen’s fingers in writing or embroidery. She remembered her mother kneeling by her side to make sure her cape was buttoned up to her chin and that she was wearing the right kind of gloves. Her mother expected her to always do her best, and Shireen was always eager to please. When she approved of something she did, her eyes smiled and there appeared those slight crooked wrinkles at the corner of her lips, and she let Shireen know she did good with a nod.

Shireen missed her. She hoped she would have been proud of her, that she wouldn’t be disappointed in what she did and how she behaved. She could imagine Mother wouldn’t be happy about her making friends with some of the Northerners, and she would have been terrified of Shaggy. Father didn’t like the notion of having his daughter in the same space with the direwolf either, but he wasn’t following her every step like Mother used to do.

Shireen knew there was never any affection between her parents. Her mother always spoke of Father with deference and devotion, but those days, even more than now, he never really spent any time with either her or Shireen. Shireen ate with her mother and their ladies; she spent her free time with Mother or wandering around with Patches, when he was still alive. She had her lessons with various Maesters and, back on Dragonstone, with Devan and Edric and, very rarely, other young boys and girls, children of father’s vassals when they occasionally came to visit to discuss a matter or another with their liege. Even when he was home, and not in King’s Landing serving his brother, Father rarely ever talked to her, and she rarely ever saw him. Maester Cressen sometimes mentioned him, that he had been asking about her progress in her studies, and she was always diligent and eager to learn so that he could be proud of her. “What did you tell my father about me, Maester? What did he say?” she had always asked, full of anticipation. “You are every bit as good a student as he himself used to be. I told him so, and he is proud of you,” the old Maester used to answer, and those words always made Shireen’s day.

There was a knock on the door, and three servants entered with their meals, roasted pheasant with a side of steamed millet and a compote of pears and cherries for dessert, and they also carried wine and fresh lemon water and ale and bread, napkins and cutlery and table-glasses.

They arranged the dishes on the table, after which Shireen dismissed them. “Thank you. We’ll serve ourselves.” She smiled, hoping to make up for her father’s sullen annoyance. She had found long time ago with servants it was more than just a matter of simple courtesy – they saw and heard, and talked, and oftentimes kindness and a few warm words yielded loyalty and discretion on their part more securely than any threats and oaths of secrecy ever could. And besides, it made interaction with them much more pleasant.

Shireen poured herself some wine, and reached over the table to fill her father’s glass with lemon water, not bothering to ask if he preferred to drink the same.

„What did you make of the ceremony? It would seem there is finally not a single noble lord remaining in all of the Seven Kingdoms who hasn’t sworn his fealty to you.“

He raised his eyebrows and gave a snort. „All those nobles, each one of them – on their first chance they would turn their cloaks if it suited them, as they had always done. Tyrells and Lannisters kneeled too, as everybody else – what value can any oath have, if it is also sworn by the likes of those? _Mummery_. Their words mean nothing.“

„Well, some of them offered far more than just their words, hadn’t they? And many owe their lives and legacy to you; they won’t forget that,” Shireen tried to smile, but stopped herself mid-expression, and instead added: “Or you’ll remind them.” Father smirked, a joyless sneer.

“Indeed. One can only hope the reminding would suffice to be gentle and wouldn’t need to occur too often. The lands have been sucked dry, everywhere, and what’s left is barely enough to get the common people through the year. Push them a bit further, and it would come to bloodshed, again. And with the bloody Sparrows still in the capitol…”

Father shook his head in exasperation. He tapped his fingers on the tabletop and didn’t really look at her – he rarely ever did, really, but she thought it a sign of closeness, not having to look each other in the eye. Just letting the thoughts get spoken out, without needing to temper one’s words by scoping the other person’s reaction by reading their face. Not that her Father ever did that for anybody – tempering what he had to say, that is – but still, it was different with her, she knew.

“The lords can see that – that is reason enough to cooperate, surely.”

Her father gave out another snort, and she could see from the corner of her vision he raised his eyes to look at her.

“The lords cannot see further than the tips of their noses. Some not even that far. You were in the hall with me, you saw these lords for yourself. Most of them are children, cocky boys just weaned off of wooden swords and taking their older brothers’ places at the head of their households – those brothers that died fighting, on one side or the other, while they hid behind their mothers’ skirts. And let’s not forget all the women, the foolish girls that at the end of the war found themselves heiresses. All just ripe for picking by the eager upstarts that come courting them. Some of them seem to be hardly capable of writing down their name. Now tell me, what good can come of lords like these?”

She returned his gaze, trying to come up with some useful insight that she had perhaps garnered while socializing with some of those exact lords and ladies her father just dismissed for their incompetence. She wanted to tell him they weren’t that foolish, not all of them. That some _cared_ about their smallfolk and honor and justice – perhaps _because_ they were so young, as they hadn’t been disillusioned yet by years of uncompromising hardships.

“The Lady Frey’s apparel alone makes one regret the leniency of the sumptuary laws. And she wasn’t even the worst of them. The common folk have hardly enough corn to sustain them, yet their lords parade themselves around court as if they were competing with each other in vanity.”

“I’ll talk to Walda.”

“It is a pitiful state of things when a sovereign needs to _explain_ to his charges how things are _in person_ for them to realize the stupidity of their conduct, as if they were sheep incapable of reason.”

“Better not to realize than not to care,” she said under her breath.

“What’s that? Speak up, Shireen.”

“I think… It is better to be ignorant than to know and care not. Surely, if they are inexperienced, they can learn. Isn’t it like with dogs, or horses, that it’s easier to teach them something new, than to rid them of a bad habit? It is surely better to have court filled with green boys and maidens, rather than with cunning schemers.”

“Oh, there’s enough of those left, they just play meek, for now. Still, it’s no matter. Schemers or ignoramuses. Plague or sweating sickness. Both leave dead in their wake.”

“Yet the one is… remediable, but the other is not.”

“Aye, with enough time and resources. The realm has neither to spare.”

 

## Davos                             

The princess was the last to arrive, arm in arm with the sprightly and cheerful Grand Maester Ryam. And so they were all seated and ready, a quarter an hour before the council meeting was scheduled to start – the king and his heir and his counsellors, such as they were. Davos wondered whether they will wait or start early, but he did not wonder long before the king waved his hand and opened the session. „Let us begin.“

Shireen looked almost excited. She sat leaning forward a bit in her chair, quill in her hand, and when she caught Davos’ glance she gave him a smile.

Stannis gave Grand Maester Ryam a nod. The old man cleared his throat and commenced reading the list of session topics to cover. From the looks of it, it was to be a long day for all of them – including the princess, as Davos guessed that know that she was to attend the council meetings her father would require her to sit through their entirety.

The Grand Maester finished reading. „If there is any other urgent matter that wasn’t mentioned and that any one of the council members would like to discuss, speak up now so we can make place for it.“

Wyman Manderly coughed and placed both his palms on the table. „What about Your Grace’s remarriage? It would be wise to act quickly, as the one that is without any question fit best to be our new queen received several marriage offers during the last week. We wouldn’t want to have her engaged elsewhere, surely.“ He had a rather self-satisfied, expectant grin on his face.

Stannis leaned back in his chair. The frown on his face was as deep as it had ever been, but also somehow resigned. „Am I to understand the council has reached an agreement in this matter?“

„We have not,“ Grand Maester narrowed his eyes at the portly Master of Laws, who was obviously in a good mood.

„The list of candidates is narrow enough, that’s true. Although I don’t believe we have the same girl in mind, Lord Manderly,“ offered Lomas Estermont, the Master of the Ships.

Lord Manderly paid them no mind. „Your Grace, indeed we have. Out of the available heiresses and daughters of the noble houses, the Council considers Sansa Stark to be the best candidate.“

Lomas Estermont gave out a snort. „The _council_ considers? Rather _you_ consider. Do you presume to speak for all of us? The best candidate for whom? The girl is hardly a few weeks not a Lannister. She was suspected of _murder_.“

Wyman Manderly sighed and shook his head slowly, as if dealing with an obtuse child. „This was already cleared up. She testified and was exonerated. By court decree.“

„ _And_ she spent months at Baelish’s side as his ward.“ The elderly man inclined his head and looked in Shireen’s general direction, „If Her Grace the Princess would forgive me. Petyr Baelish was a...  _notorious whoremonger_.“

„Now this is _just_ enough.“ Lord Manderly stood up, red in face. „Guard your tongue, Ser, this is a higborn maiden you speak of. The Regent of the North.“

Lord Estermont shrugged. „I only wish to inform of that which is copiously expounded upon at court.“

„The council isn’t going to occupy itself with what clearly is slanderous gossip.“ Lord Manderly insisted.

„Sit down, Lord Manderly,“ The king ordered, grinding his teeth, and turned to his Master of Ships. „Who do you propose, Ser?“

Lomas Estermont spoke in a gentle voice, surely fully aware of the dangerous ground he was treading upon: „If your Grace would just reconsider... hearken to the sense of the Tyrell’s...“

„Don’t speak to me of the Tyrell girl again. It surprises me that you would even consider this an option, Lord Estermont. Have you forgotten Storm’s End?“ The king barked. Lord Estermont himself defended the castle from Mace Tyrell’s forces, then serving the boy-king Tommen, during the war.

„I did not _forget_ ,“ the king‘s uncle sounded offended.

Tycho Nestoris came to his rescue. „Considering the interest of the royal treasury, I must agree with Lord Estermont’s choice. The crown’s coffers would certainly benefit from it the most. As for the girl’s personal qualities and other criteria by which a bride for His Grace is to be chosen, I cannot say. Yet she _was_ offered with a rather sizeable dowry.“

Wyman Manderly looked personally affronted. “ _Sizeable dowry,_ you say? If the Tyrells can afford anything close to a _sizeable dowry_ then surely the penalties for their traitorous actions hadn’t been severe enough.”

As a matter of fact, the dowry offered was indeed considerable. Davos sat with Garlan Tyrell himself and heard out the offer. He was a pleasant and courteous young man, and he didn’t hide his sentiment about the match. „My sister doesn’t desire it. My mother and brothers find it obscene, and so do I. But alas, I am came here to speak my father’s will.” It seemed Mace Tyrell would have wagered everything he had left to get one more chance at making his daughter the queen.

“I _said_ I will hear no more about this.” The king ground his teeth with irritation. The Master of the Ships shook his head, but said no more. „Lord Seaworth, do you have any thoughts on the matter?“

Davos took a moment to formulate his answer.

Now that the war was over and all the remaining houses flocked to Stannis, instead of military logistics and battle tactics it fell to the king and his Hand to set up and maintain satisfactory relations with the noble houses – those that hadn’t gone extinct during the war, that is –, as well as between them. And much of that effort consisted of sketching up and negotiating suitable marriages and wardships between houses.

His own dear son was one of the first to become a part of such a settlement – by marrying the young heiress of the lord Frey he was also to be made the Lord of the Twins. When Davos learned of the match, he had to sit down to process the implications of it. His son would become overlord over great expanses of land, and the House Seaworth, with the onion on its banner, would become – through Devan’s sons and by absorbing the inheritance of their mother, the Frey heiress – one of the most prominent houses in Riverlands, if not in the whole of the Realm.

Most of the male lineage of the house Frey had been eradicated during the war, and the rest of them died traitors‘ death when the war was over – they got to experience the wrath of the North, cold and terrible. The girls had been spared, of course, Walda first and foremost, as the lawful heiress. The girl was spoiled and haughty and she liked ordering her lowborn husband-to-be around, but Devan himself seemed to have grown fond of her. Davos hoped Marya would talk some sense into the girl, now that she got to meet her.

During the week that preceded the ceremony, Davos had met a representative of each of the Houses that had come to swear fealty in order to gauge their motivations and expectations. Stannis sat with him during several of the meetings, particularly with lords of the more influential houses, but most Davos had to brave alone. Many had come forward offering a daughter or a ward, some subtly, some as if they were bargaining the price for a goose in a marketplace, some, as Garlan Tyrell, dutifully but warily and unenthusiastically. Few of the lords thought to bring their daughters with them, or even consider their will in the matter – Davos suspected most would share Margaery’s sentiment about the offer, and he did not blame them. His king was a hard man to please, and lacked his brothers’ easy charm. His relationship with Selyse had been anything but cordial, and the rumors about Melisandre were common knowledge these days.

The king himself had no desire for another wife, but sometimes it seemed to Davos a woman’s gentle touch was exactly what would His Grace need in dealings with the courtiers. And, perhaps, sometimes even for Stannis himself, although that opinion he felt was better to keep to himself.

However, somehow disconcertingly Davos could easily imagine many more scenarios of how could a match go wrong, and make everything more complicated.

„Whoever she is, she needs be sensible and capable, first and foremost. That is surely more important than the size of her dowry,“ Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Lomas Estermont was about to protest. „That is of course not to say Margaery Tyrell doesn’t possess these, but as Your Grace considers her unacceptable, it is of no consequence.“

Maester Ryam spoke up, rather matter-of-factly: „With all due respect, Lord Seaworth. The truth of the matter is, she needs be _first and foremost_ dutiful and fertile. As I have already communicated to His Grace, I recommend marrying a young, healthy widow proven capable of bearing children. Preferably with a living daughter. With the surplus of widows these days she shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

Davos let him speak his mind, and then continued. „A sensible and capable young widow, why not? But as for the candidates that are currently considered – Princess, you are often in the company of the Lady Stark, what do you make of her?“

Shireen took a rather startled look at Davos, and then at her father, as if making sure she was allowed to speak. The king nodded.

„She is... very pleasant.“ The princess said reservedly, but after a while she continued, obviously realizing the evaluation felt rather weak. „She really is. She cares for her brother very much, yet she is not overbearing. We know each other only a few weeks, but as far as I am able to be a judge of these things, she certainly seems very dutiful, and neither insensible nor impractical. Kind and sweet, too. And... brave. She had been through a lot, that is plain to see, and yet, as far as I can tell, it had not bent her sense of what is right.“

From the few encounters Davos himself had with the Lady Stark, he too did find her a good choice. His son spoke of her with praise, and even gratitude for not despising Walda for her family’s crimes, at least not openly. Rickon has very quickly grown attached to her, almost as he did to Shireen. And albeit it shouldn’t perhaps be considered an important factor in deciding for a new queen, she was radiantly beautiful and pleasant, yet not in a reckless way that Davos knew the king despised. She struck him as a good choice, a wife to complement her husband, such as His Grace was ever likely to be, to soften his hard words and stares and take care for him of the much-abhorred necessity of exchanging empty pleasantries with his courtiers.

„Both Maester Lyonell and Maester Golliver mentioned Lady Stark seeks them out sometimes to discuss the northern affairs, and she takes a keen interest in her brother’s education. In those matters, at the least, she indeed does seem dutiful,” offered the Grand Maester.

The king was tapping his fingers on the table. „She is a bit young.“

„She is seventeen,“ noted Wyman Manderly, sounding as if that was an appeasing correction of a genuine, yet mistaken observation on Stannis‘ part.

„She was given regency of the North. Surely she’ll want to return to Winterfell soon,“ tried the Master of the Ship, with some desperation.

„Lady Stark is determined to stay by her brother’s side. She isn’t going north without him.”

Lomas Estermont disapproved. “That doesn’t sound neither too dutiful nor sensible to me. The regent of the North should be in the North, not dallying around at court.”

Stannis shrugged. “As it is, it is a formal title for the most part. The council of lords I left at Winterfell has so far proven sufficiently capable of taking care of the matters in the North. Lady Stark seems intent on corresponding regularly with them, but the distance is far too great for her to be making any real practical decisions.”

“She should go north then, and marry one of them.”

“She should.” Stannis agreed.

“She would be of much better use to the realm here by your side, Your Grace.”

“I understand very well you favor Sansa Stark above all others, Lord Manderly.”

“Not just myself, the whole of the North.”

Stannis inclined his head. “Who else, Davos?”

“There are many.” Davos shuffled through his papers. “Either one of the daughters of Stafford Lannister – Cerenna is a widow and has a son, the other, Myrielle, is a maid.”

“Yes, I attended _that_ meeting. Fool of a boy. A Lannister is out of the question.”

„Then there is Annara, twenty years old, daughter of Mathis Rowan, Lord... “

„Of Goldengrove. Mathis Rowan feasted and jested with Mace Tyrell during the siege of Storm’s End. He sat with Lannisters at their councils.“

„He is not an insensible man,“ opined the Grand Maester.

„He’s not. That does not make me want to crown his daughter.“

“Alright then. Then there’s Nianna, fifteen years old, the only daughter of Baelor Hightower. She came with her father, she is a lovely girl.“

„What use is a fifteen year old Hightower?“ scoffed Lord Manderly.

“Lady Waynwood’s daughters, the older one is a widow. Lord Royce mentioned he has a maiden daughter, too. Asha Greyjoy offers her nieces, granddaughters of her mother’s brother, the Lord of Harlaw. The eldest of them is also a widow. And lastly, several Northern lords came offering their daughters, but the offers were all renounced within a day, all of them in favor of Sansa Stark.“

Wyman Manderly’s self-satisfied grin widened and seemed to fill the room.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, please let me know, and comment :).


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